THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


w-r>-' 


LUBRICATIONS 


By 

W.  G.  (BILL)  LONG 


Published  by 
THE    AUTHOR 

1922 


COPYRIGHTED 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 

1922 


w.  G.  (BILL)  LONG 


PS 


JL 


THEY  ARE  FOR  YOU 

who  have  climbed  to  the  top 
When  the  derrick  was  covered  with  snow; 
You  who  have  made  the  drill  drop 
In  the  sun-set's  evening  glow. 

You  who  have  sweated  and  wrought 

From  Pensy's  ice-laden  hills, 
To  the  sun-set's  flowery  spot 

Through  Illinois  ague  and  chills. 

Reached  for  the  magic  wealth, 

Vintage  of  desperate  years; 
Sought  it  at  night  by  stealth 

Embittered  by  unshed  tears. 

I  sing  these  songs  for  you : 

You,  whose  flesh  shows  the  brand; 
To  you  who  know  they  are  true, 

God  knows  that  you'll  understand. 


91717? 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  OIL  MAN'S  GREED 

TV7E  believe  in  this  life.  We  believe  that  nature  intended 
all  men  to  be  equal  according  to  his  worthy  desires. 

We  believe  in  making  the  best  of  the  present,  forgetting 
the  bad  of  the  past,  striving  earnestly  for  the  future 
betterment  of  all. 

We  believe  when  the  wheel  of  fortune  is  turned,  that  the 
best  servant  will  be  the  best  master;  the  mistakes  we 
have  made  in  the  past  will  be  the  guiding  buoy  of  the 
coming  years.  True  equality  is  the  equality  of  all. 

We  believe  to  err  is  human,  but  to  make  the  same  mis 
take  twice  is  a  crime.  The  dusters  and  the  gushers 
are  but  the  crucible  that  separates  the  dross  from  the 
pure  gold  of  life. 

We  believe  that  when  we  die  our  bodies  return  to  dust 
whence  the  caldron  nature  uses  it  to  bring  forth  the 
pink-hearted  rose  and  the  blushing  fruit. 

We  believe  in  the  immortal  soul,  it  is  ours  to  burnish, 
brighten  and  glorify,  or  to  shrivel,  blacken  and  damn. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

National  Petroleum  News,  having 


used  a  great  number  of  these  "Rhymes" 
in  their  publication,  I  hereby  acknowledge 
my  appreciation  of  the  good  fellowship  of 
Warren  C.  Platt,  its  editor,  who  has  kindly 
allowed  their  use  in  this  book. 

The  writer  has  taken  liberties  with  the 
following  authors:  Rudyard  Kipling; 
Robert  Service;  Wordsworth;  Edgar  A. 
Guest;  and  others,  for  which  he  apolo 
gizes. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Soliloquy  of  Oil 11 

They  Are  There  13 

The  Driller 15 

Its  Fascination  16 

Abandoned    17 

At  Parker  on  the  Hill 18 

The  Song  of  the  Derelict 20 

I'm  a  Wise  Guy 22 

Randlet,  Oklahoma  (A  Letter) 23 

A  Producer's  Dream  in  Tulsa 24 

The  Tooley   25 

The  Evolution  of  the  Roustabout 27 

The  Truth   30 

The  Leaser's  Argument 31 

More  Pipe  Lines 32 

When  It's  All  Off 33 

To  Gushing  26 

Irish  Mary  34 

The  Ghost  of  Barney  Tholoco 36 

Tommy  Atkins  39 

The  Oil  Country  Tommy  Atkins 41 

Alas,  Poor  Paden 42 

The  Oil  Country  Vampire 44 

The  Analyzing  Oil  Editor , 45 

East  or  West  It  Is  the  Same 46 

The  Old  Man's  Lament , 47 

7 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

O  You  Kitty!  49 

The  Law  of  the  Oil  Field 50 

The  Farmer's  Sand  52 

Reminiscent  53 

The  Dreamer   54 

Tell  Them  Again  to  Me 55 

Genius  57 

Lament  to  Bacchus  58 

Farewell,  Doctor  Booze 59 

Texas  60 

Requiem  to  the  Power  That  Was 62 

The  Investigating  Spirit  of  Congress 62 

My  Flag   64 

Just  Tired   65 

His  Oil  Country  Shack 66 

Der  Tag  67 

The  Devil's  Soliloquy  on  the  Kaiser 68 

1909   69 

1914   70 

Our  Flag   29 

Give  and  You  Shall  Receive 72 

To  James  Whitcomb  Riley 72 

May  30,  1908 74 

The  Pants  That  Mother  Made  75 

Bill  78 

If  You  Were  Mine 79 

The  Girl  in  Dixie 80 

The  Cry  of  the  Tame  51 

Memories  of  a  Valentine  81 

When  Mother's  Gone  82 

8 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Thanksgiving  Thought 63 

At  Fifty-five 83 

A  Warning  to  Colored  Brothers 84 

The  Wail  of  the  Fat  Man 71 

Who's  to  Blame? 85 

Going  Home   « .  86 

The  Death  of  Mark  Twain , 87 

Thanksgiving    88 

Friendship   88 

Canandaigua  in  a  Frenzy 89 

Why  Not?    89 

When  I  Am  Fifty  and  You  Are  Five 90 

Pre-Nuptial  Shower   91 

Violets  91 

Wouldn't  This  Be  a  Dream? 92 

The  Home  on  the  River  Hill 93 

Father's  Got  a  Job 94 

Spring  Troubles 95 

Hallowe'en   96 

Laddie    , 97 

Spring   98 

Our  Day  Dreams 98 

All  His  Labors  Are  Vain 99 

Our  Good  Friend  $$$$$ 100 

The  Old  Bucket  Shop 101 

If  I  Should  Die  Tonight 102 

Dem  Guys  Next  Door 103 

When  the  Ice  is  in  the  Rye 103 

Optimistic  Bill   105 

The  Grafter 107 

To  My  Book 107 

The  Apology  108 

9 


I 


THE  SOLILOQUY  OF  OIL 

HAVE  been  buried  in  subterranean  caverns  for  a  mil 
lion  years.  What  will  the  earth's  axis  do  without 
my  lubrication? 


A  half  a  century  ago  I  was  liberated,  bridled,  saddled, 
and  made  subservient  to  the  will  of  man.  My  Liber 
ator's  voice  speaks  from  the  exhausts  of  thousands 
of  engines,  for  from  my  storehouse  comes  their 
power. 

I  am  the  lubricator  of  the  wheels  of  commerce,  the 
bearer  of  human  freight  and  grain  is  whirled  across 
a  continent  because  I  am  in  their  journals. 

I  light  the  great  cathedral  with  the  waxen  taper.  The 
poor  and  lowly,  the  great  and  affluent,  use  me  to  light 
their  pathway  to  knowledge. 

I  am  the  tireless  servant  of  millions.  I  brighten  up  the 
midnight  darkness  of  the  gloomy  world,  and  illumi 
nate  the  home  of  the  peasant  and  prince.  Without 
me  the  air  would  have  remained  unconquered.  I  am 
the  power  that  drives  the  brain  child  of  Wright 
Brothers  through  eternal  space. 

It  is  I  that  tears  the  lightning  from  the  heavens  and  makes 
it  a  plaything  for  the  child.  I  plow  the  unbroken 
fields  and  harvest  the  golden  grain.  My  body  is  laid 
upon  the  streets  of  magnificent  cities,  happy  in  feel 
ing  the  footsteps  of  children,  and  I  laugh  at  the  great 
burdens  in  the  despatch  of  business.  I  am  the  builder 
of  empires  and  the  destroyer  of  kings.  I  move  the 
death  dealing  instruments  of  war.  I  grease  the  pas 
sage  of  the  great  ship  in  her  initial  plunge  on  the 
breast  of  the  ocean.  Without  me  the  world  would 
be  helpless. 

11 


12  LUBRICATIONS 

I  am  the  soul  of  printers'  ink  and  a  million  readers  hear 
me  speak.  I  am  the  builder  of  cities,  my  derricks 
stab  the  new  world's  sky,  and  my  golden  shafts  kiss 
the  noon-day  sun.  Man  brought  me  forth  and  I 
mastered  him.  I  make  him  bow  and  cringe  and  at 
night  pray  to  my  golden  calf.  In  man's  quest  for  me 
he  has  been  made  a  pauper.  I  pick  the  beggar  up 
and  set  him  in  a  palace.  I  am  his  menial.  I  clean 
his  clothes  and  polish  his  floors. 

My  breath  blazes  forth  in  the  kitchen,  to  cook  his  food. 
He  warms  his  feet  by  my  flickering  flame  in  his  par 
lor.  Yon  graceful  car,  so  strong  and  beautiful,  has 
concealed  within  its  body  a  part  of  me.  I  am  its 
heart  and  through  my  pulsations  the  Master  pro 
duces  strength,  speed  and  efficiency. 

I  furnish  the  disc  that  brings  the  God-hewn  voice 
through  its  throat  of  brass  that  time  will  not  destroy. 
Man  cannot  live  without  me.  I  bring  life,  its  joys 
and  its  sorrows.  I  grease  the  channel  of  man's  en 
trance  into  the  world;  I  seal  his  casket  when  he 
leaves.  To  think  that  I,  with  all  my  power,  comfort 
and  efficiency  lay  millions  of  years  waiting  for  the 
hand  of  the  dreamer. 


LUBRICATIONS  13 


THEY  ARE  THERE 

TF  I  were  looking  for  soldiers  with  good  red  blood  in 
their  veins; 

If  I  were  hunting  for  manhood,  men  careless  of  scars 
and  pains; 

If  I  were  looking  for  Nobles, — men  that  you  cannot  de 
feat; 

I  would  never  go  to  the  city  to  hunt  its  stifled  street. 

If  I  were  hunting  a  soldier  for  a  battle,  or  say,  for  this  life, 

I  would  hike  me  off  to  the  oil  field,  get  men  who  are  used 
to  strife; 

Men  who  climb  the  derrick  when  it  staggers  from  spud 
ding  line 

Like  a  careening  ship  in  a  typhoon  or  swaying  like  a 
forest  pine. 

There  I  would  find  my  model,  one  who  was  quick  to  feel 
That  this  whole  life  is  a  warfare,  one  with  nerves  of  steel; 
One  that  can  build  a  city,  one  that  can  drill  a  well, 
For  water  is  all  important  when  cannons  belch  forth  their 
hell. 

Men  who  are  true  to  their  friendship,  who  love  our  own 
green  sod; 

Men  who  bend  knees  to  no  one  but  women,  her  home 
and  their  God. 

If  I  were  looking  for  true  men,  men  who  fear  not  the  moil, 

I  would  leave  city  and  village  and  go  where  they're  drill 
ing  for  oil. 

These  are  soldiers  of  fortune,  men  that  establish  their 

fame 
Sucking  the  oil  from  earth's  bosom;   building  in  honor, 

not  shame. 
Dragging  from  the  old  world's  store-house  the  fluid  of 

amber  gold, 


14  LUBRICATIONS 

Made  after  God's  own  image,  moulded  in  God's  own 
mould. 

This  is  the  place  to  find  them;  some  will  curse  as  they 
toil, 

Yet  tenderly  care  for  a  brother  smoothing  his  troubles 
like  oil, 

With  hands  that  are  blistered  and  swollen  gently  caress 
ing  the  face 

Of  the  injured,  broken  brother — you  will  find  him  in  no 
other  place. 


A  PRODUCER'S  DREAM  IN  TULSA 

TTE  lay  upon  his  Ostermoor;  the  stars  winked  overhead, 

He  heard  his  Bessemer  engine  back  fire  from  its  shed; 
He  saw  the  golden,  sparkling  oil  flow  from  his  leading  line, 
He  smiled  as  Angels  whispered  (it  seemed  almost  divine). 
He  saw  his  tanks  all  laden  with  one  dollar  five  cent  oil, 
And  the  pipe  line  people  say  to  him,  "Let  us  pay  you  for 

your  toil." 

He  saw  the  market  going  up,  his  wells  increased  his  gold, 
The  pipe  lines  were  sorry  that  he  had  never  sold. 
They  did  not  wake  him  from  his  dreams,  it  was  so  sweet 

and  real 
They  let  him  have  those  fragrant  flowers,  without  the 

stab  of  steel. 
So  they  let  him  smile  in  happiness,  for  to  him  it  was  so 

sweet 
They  took  a  knife  and  cut  his  throat  while  he  was  fast 

asleep. 

MORAL:  There  is  no  difference  between  cutting  a 
man's  throat  and  letting  the  sunshine  into  his  entrails, 
than  to  cut  his  meal  ticket  off  and  let  the  sun  shine 
through  them. 


LUBRICATIONS  15 


THE  DRILLER 

~V~ES!  he  wore  the  old  blue  overalls,  emblem  of  his 
trade; 

His  hands  were  hard  and  calloused,  his  clear  eyes  una 
fraid. 

Was  a  pioneer  at  Bradford — felled  the  hemlock  and  the 
pine 

To  build  the  hemlock  cities  all  along  the  ancient  line. 

He  wrests  the  golden  fluid  from  earth's  maternal  breast, 

Builds  homes  for  the  producers,  by  his  patient  toil  and 
zest. 

As  they  pioneered  the  "gold-fields"  back  in  forty-nine, 
So  he  opened  up  the  oil-fields,  on  the  five  and  forty  line. 
He  is  found  at  work  in  Canada  'mid  winter's  fiendish  blast, 
Is  ready  to  climb  to  the  pinnacle,  be  it  a  derrick  or  a  mast; 
No  matter  if  ice-laden,  no  odds  if  night  or  day, 
He  laughs  at  threatened  dangers,  the  drill  he  drives  to  the 
pay. 

He  never  plays  to  the  galleries,  he  is  wise  and  sane, 
A  fine,  big-hearted  fellow;  sometimes  a  little  profane, 
Stationed  out  in  the  wilderness,  near  to  nature's  heart, 
Working  with  brain  and  muscle,  wisely  playing  his  part: 
It  may  be  the  crowded  oil  fields,  or  possibly  alone, 
He  is  ever  true  to  duty,  ever  thinking  of  home. 

Don't  listen  to  the  stories  told  on  this  man  of  toil, 
Don't  heed  the  forked  tongue  gossips,  of  this  pioneer  in 

oil, 

For  he  is  the  old  farm  product,  the  kind  that  is  ever  first 
To  blaze  the  trail  thro'  forests,  'mid  its  fever  and  its 

thirst; 
The  first  to  touch  with  magic  wand,  and  bring  the  golden 

flow; 
He's  the  best  old  scout  on  God's  green  earth — I'm  a  driller 

myself  and  I  know. 


16  LUBRICATIONS 


ITS  FASCINATION 

TTOW  I  hated  it  like  Hell  in  the  beginning 

As  on  tower  at  midnight  I'd  tramp; 
The  smell  of  the  hemlock  and  manila, 

The  smoke  of  the  old  derrick  lamp 
Made  me  wish  for  the  life  that  never  knew  harness 

And  the  peaceful  old  home  where  the  whippoorwili 

calls 
Away  from  the  oil-field  with  all  its  mad  pleasures, 

But  the  men  of  the  oil-field,  I  am  stuck  on  them  all. 

I  remember  at  Richburg  when  I  was  a  novice 

At  pointing  the  augers  that  drill  the  oil  well; 

My  back  was  as  stiff  as  if  cased  in  a  bodice, 

And,  Oh!   how  I  wished  the  whole  country  in  Hell, 

The  alarm  clock  rang  out  the  hour  of  midnight, 

As  I  grabbed  my  "old  clothes"  to  answer  its  call; 

Picked  up  the  "sav-can"  to  tramp  thro'  the  snow  drifts- 
It  was  Hell  to  get  used  to,  but  I  now  love  it  all. 

There  is  no  place  on  earth  that  I  love  and  cherish 

As  the  fields  where  the  derricks  pierce  the  blue  sky; 
No  place  on  earth  where  my  evil  thoughts  perish, 

As  when  I  hear  the  screech  of  the  beam's  wailing  cry. 
Here's  hoping  that  I  shall  never  retire 

To  the  city  or  farm  away  from  its  strife; 
There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  will  quench  my  desire, 

If  the  oil-fields  keep  calling  me  back  to  its  life. 

Go  curse  it — you  craven,  you  who  are  beat; 

Go  back  to  the  country,  the  town  and  its  moil! 

She  scorns  your  discomfort,  gloats  your  defeat, 

To  the  strong  and  courageous  she  gives  up  her  oil. 

The  faint-hearted  critter  she  claws  to  the  bone, 
She's  as  cruel  as  Hell,  and  as  bitter  as  gall; 

She'll  embrace  but  the  strong  and  give  them  a  home- 
It's  the  life  of  the  strong  man,  and  I  love  it  all. 


LUBRICATIONS  17 


HPHE  beam  is  standing  on  its  end; 

The  derrick's  warped  and  bent, 
The  engine  has  no  power  to  send, 

For  the  steam  in  the  boiler's  spent. 
The  wind  howls  thro'  the  loosened  girt, 

The  band  wheel's  rent  and  drawn; 
The  bull-wheel's  grooves  are  filled  with  dirt, 

The  bull  rope  frayed  and  worn. 
The  engine's  still,  and  red  with  dust, 

The  crown  wheel's  ceased  to  scream; 
The  drillers  gone  and  left  their  trust, 

Just  another  shattered  dream. 

Yet  I  saw  that  rig  when  all  was  bright, 

And  the  driller  stood  at  the  wheel; 
And  thro'  the  stillness  of  the  night 

I  heard  the  sand-sheave  squeal. 
No  sweeter  music  could  one  hear, 

No  golden  tinted  sky 
Was  half  so  bright,  or  half  so  dear, 

As  the  flare  of  lamps,  the  wheel's  wild  cry. 
It  brought  sweet  rest  to  the  tired  mind, 

It  sang  me  to  sleep  with  its  screech; 
It  renewed  fond  hopes  that  were  left  behind, 

And  brought  them  within  my  reach. 

Now  darkness  deep,  and  silence  drear 

Surrounds  that  spire  of  hope; 
No  more  we'll  see  a  ghostly  light,  or  hear 

The  creak  of  the  driller's  rope. 
We  played  the  hand  dealt  from  the  pack, 

Above  board  and  on  the  square; 
We  followed  the  old  and  beaten  track, 

With  the  gamblers'  reckless  air; 
We  washed  the  slush  for  its  hidden  sign, 

While  our  hopes  were  running  high, 
We  applied  the  glass,  on  the  oozing  slime 

In  vain,  for  the  sand  was  dry. 

2— April  1922 


18  LUBRICATIONS 


AT  PARKER  ON  THE  HILL 

A  DRILLER  from  Pennsylvania  lay  dying  in  Illinois, 
The  only  hands  to  care  for  him  were  the  hard  hands 
of  the  boys; 

A  tooley  knelt  beside  him  to  hear  what  he  might  say, 
And  carry  his  last  message  to  his  friends  in  old  P-a. 
The  dying  driller  muttered  as  he  raised  his  palsied  hand: 
"I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  distant  native  land; 
Take  a  message  as  a  token  (and  his  eyes  began  to  fill), 
To  my  birthplace  up  at  Parker,  at  Parker  on  the  hill. 

Just  tell  those  ancient  knockers  that  their  prophecy's  not 

true, 

Although  I'm  dying  in  Illinois  without  a  single  sou— 
That  the  hangman  did  not  get  me,  to  hang  me  on  the  rack 
And  I'll  haunt  those  old-time  gossips,  because  I'm  coming 

back. 
Though  I've  lied  like  hell  to  farmers,  and  drank  their 

bitter  lav- 
Ale  their  punk  and  side-meat  and  their  Butler  county  sav; 
I  never  drank  the  moonshine  from  Virginia's  hidden  still, 
Because  I  came  from  Parker,  from  Parker  on  the  hill. 

It  has  been  a  hellish  battle,  and  not  always  on  the  square, 

For  I  was  always  handicapped,  was  kicked  at  everywhere. 

I  have  played  the  cards  life  dealt  me,  with  their  joy  or 
with  their  pain; 

Still  I  never  struck  the  fallen  foe  nor  stole  his  hard- 
earned  gain. 

But  have  moiled  with  hands  all  blistered,  seeking  hidden 

wealth, 
Yet  I  never  used  vile  methods  or    went    at    night,    by 

stealth. 
I  have  used  an  honest  yardstick,  the  measure'd  always 

fill- 
For  I  was  born  at  Parker,  at  Parker  on  the  hill. 


LUBRICATIONS 19 

So  take  this  message  back  to  them  and  tell  them  how  I 

died, — 
Be  silent  on  my  wayward  ways,  don't  tell  them  how  I've 

lied. 

Tell  them  that  no  Angels  came  a-fluttering  on  the  wing, 
And  that  I  thought  of  friendly  ones,  left  off  the  gossip's 

sting. 
Just  say  that  I  forgave  them.     .     .     .     (My  God,  but  the 

world  is  cold!) 
And  tell  them  how  I've  labored,  garnering  the  sheaves  of 

gold; 

Say  how  I  made  the  anvil  ring,  or  drove  the  mighty  drill, 
For  I  was  born  at  Parker,  at  Parker  on  the  hill. 

His  voice  was  growing  husky    .     .     .     his  eyes  a  ghastly 

stare    .     .     . 
The  oil  lamp  in  the  "Rag-house"  winked  out  a  ghostly 

glare; 

In  fancy  once  again  he  saw  that  kind  old  mother's  face 
Across  the  spectered  chasm — out  in  eternal  space. 
The  death  sweat  stood  out  on  his  brow,  he  called  that 

precious  name    .     .     . 
Coming,  mother    .     .     .     coming    .   .    .   hallowed  be  thy 

name. 
The  hands  that  turned  the  temper-screw,  lay  cold,  and 

white  and  still — 
The  driller's  spirit  was  at  rest — at  Parker  on  the  hill. 


20  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DERELICT 

T'M  one  of  the  "Oil  Country  Brotherhood,"  I'm  an  old- 
time  pioneer; 

I  was  one  of  the  first — Oh,  God,  how  I've  cursed  the  oil 
fields!  but  still  I'm  here. 

I've  sweated  a-thirst  in  its  summer  heat;  I've  frozen  and 
starved  in  its  toil; 

I've  followed  my  dreams  by  its  thousand  streams,  slaved 
and  worked  for  its  oil. 

Look  at  my  eyes,  they've  been  burned  twice;    look,  two 

fingers  are  gone; 
And  the  gruesome  scar  on  my  left  cheek  is  where  the 

spudding  shoe  cleft  the  bone. 
Each  one  a  brand  of  this  devilish  land,  where  I've  played 

and  lost  the  game; 
A  broken  wreck  with  a  craze  for  "Booze"  without  a  cent 

to  my  name. 

This  drilling  is  only  a  gamble,  the  worst  is  as  bad  as  the 

best; 
I  was  hooked  up  right  and  might  have  come  out,  right  on 

top  with  the  rest; 
With  Crawford,  McGrew  and  McDonald — oh,  God,  but 

it's  hell  to  think 
Of  the  coin  of  the  realm  I've  squandered,  on  cards  and 

women  and  drink. 

In  the  early  days  we  were  lonely,  we  hunted  and  just 

laid  around, 
And  dreamed  in  our  lonely  shanty  of  the  oil  that  lay  under 

the  ground. 
We  drank  the  mountain  stilled  whiskey,  in  the  shade  I've 

slept  on  the  ground 

Close  to  the  bee  tree  in  Wetzel,  near  where  the  best  well 
was  found. 


LUBRICATIONS 


Of  the  Parker  days  with  their  sin  and  their  blaze,  and  the 

town  all  open  wide! 
(If  God  moulded  me  in  his  image,  I've  sure  got  the  devil 

inside) 
For  we  were  plumb  mad  both  the  good  and  the  bad,  yet  I 

swear  it's  the  truth  I  tell — 
There  is  no  spot  on  earth  in  the  same  length  of  time,  has 

hustled  more  souls  to  hell. 

At  Sistersville  money  was  dirt,  so  easy  to  get  and  to  spend. 
I  got  stuck  on  a  chambermaid,  but  she  shook  me  in  the 

end; 
That  made  me  a  bum  and  for  over  a  year  I  never  drew 

sober  breath, 
'Till  I  found  myself  in  a  bug-house  ward,  with  a  lease 

that's  bounded  by  death. 

Thirty  years  in  the  oil-fields  poring  over  its  maps, 
Sometimes  eating  a  la  carte,  sometimes  dining  on  scraps, 
Bathed  in  the  amber  fluid,  in  the  winter's  fiendish  cold — 
Thirty  years  in  the  oil-field     .     .     .     thirty  years     .     .     . 
and  I'm  old! 

Old  and  battered.  No  matter    .     .     .     there's  booze  in  the 

bottle  still. 
I'll  hitch  up  my  span  of  trotters,  drive  them  down  to  the 

'ville. 
Tonight  I  am  fearfully  lonesome     .     .     .     I'll    just    lay 

down  on  this  bed    .     .     . 
I'll  go  down  tomorrow    .     .     .     tomorrow    .     .     .     shoot 

the  "Pea"  this  stack  goes  on  the  red. 

.     .     .     Come  Bill,  turn  your  wheel  quick     .     .     .    my 

auto  awaits  in  the  court    .     .     . 
.     .     .     I'll  play  you  this  stack  of  "Blue  Ones,"  just  to 

show  you  I'm  a  sport    .     .     . 
.     .     .     How   many    tanks    did  she  make,  Bill     .     .     . 

come  on  and  play  out  the  game     .     .     . 
.     .     .     Dear    God,    up    in    heaven     .     .     .    What!    you 

here,  Kit?    .     .     .     Hallowed  be  thy  name    .     .     . 


22 LUBRICATIONS 

And  this  was  the  song  of  the  derelict,  as  he  lay  in  his 

shack  alone, 
With  none  to  care  for  the  still  form  there,  the  lips  had 

ceased  to  moan; 
In  the  flickering  light — 'tis  a  gruesome  sight  when  God 

calls  a  wanderer  home. 


I'M  A  WISE  GUY 

VES,  I'm  the  fellow  that  knows  it  all 

About  this  glorious  game  of  oil; 
I  sit  in  the  lobby  every  day, 
And  you  can  bet  on  what  I  say. 
I've  followed  it  up  since  John  was  a  lad, 
And  know  his  thoughts,  good  and  bad; 
Geology  to  me  is  like  A,  B,  C. 
All  the  newspaper  dope  comes  out  of  me. 
The  big  producers  I  know  by  name, 
And  the  date  when  they  began  the  game; 
I  know  their  records  from  A  to  Z, 
I'm  a  wise  old  owl  as  you  can  see. 
My  only  object's  to  help  the  "BOYS  ALONG,' 
And  when  I'm  going  good  and  strong 
I  boost  their  game,  and  it  brings  me  luck; 
My  former  job  was  driving  a  truck. 
I  know  when  the  price  is  going  up, 
I  have  the  instinct  of  a  "highbrow  pup" 
Who  noses  the  brush  and  flushes  the  game, 
But  I'm  too  danged  modest  to  sign  my  name. 


LUBRICATIONS  23 


Randlet,  Oklahoma,  Aug.  16,  1912. 
Dear  Lawrence — 

I  am  writing  you  this  from  a  little  rag  shack, 

Just  to  let  the  boys  know  that  I  have  got  back. 

I  met  Doctor  Booze  in  town  that  first  night, 

He  shook  his  wise  head,  said,  that  lump  is  a  sight, 

You  must  heed  my  advice,  he  said  with  a  grin, 

For  to  go  back  to  work  with  that  lump  is  a  sin — 

I'll  take  it  away  without  blood  or  pain 

(Of  course  if  you're  careful  it  will  sure  grow  again. 

So  I  was  persuaded  and  went  into  his  game 

When  I  think  of  it  now  I  was  surely  insane) 

For  he  started  and  peeled  a  strip  at  a  stroke, 

It  was  not  very  painful,   'twas  the  truth  that  he  spoke, 

'Till  'long  about  midnight  the  lump  grew  so  small 

I  could  have  swallowed  the  smear,  and  not  choked  at  all. 

By  morning,  dear  Lawrence,  I  knew  it  was  all  wrong, 

For  under  his  treatment  I  had  become  very  strong. 

Now  the  lump  being  removed,  Doctor  Booze  had  gone 

home, 

And  my  head  (mostly  concrete)  now  felt  like  a  bone — 
And  the  things  that  passed  by  as  if  in  review 
Would  go  a  long  way  toward  filling  a  zoo. 
And  I  learned  now  too  late,  how  he  lied  when  he  said: 
'Twould  be  bloodless  and  painless.     (Great  God,  what  a 

head!) 

A  week  has  gone  by  and  I  am  back  at  my  toil, 
Twisting  rotten  old  junk,  a-boring  for  oil; 
Yet  I  still  see  that  table  where  the  lump  was  reduced 
And  I  still  have  the  ache  that  the  spirits  produced; 
But  I'm  glad  I've  got  back  to  that  derrick  of  steel, 
To  the  screech  of  the  pulleys,  and  the  whirl  of  the  wheel, 
To  the  little  rag  house  by  the  side  of  the  tree; 
It  is  a  slavish  old  game  but  it's  better  for  me 
Than  old  Doctor  Booze  with  his  high-balls  and  fizzes 
And  the  life  that  goes  with  it,  loose  gowns,  and  frizzes. 


24  LUBRICATIONS 

Now  old  R.  E.  Morse  stands  and  peeks  thro'  the  door 
And  smilingly  asks,  are  you  still  feeling  sore? 
You  have  met  him,  dear  Lawn,  he's  that  ragged  old  bo, 
That  the  next  morning  after  says,  "I  told  you  so." 
But  I  wish  to  say  here,  it  was  a  loud  jolly  bunch, 
Especially  when  soused  in  a  foaming  milk  punch; 
There  was  Dalton,  Ted  Smith,  Hudson  and  Hivick, 
Brice  Kinney,  Gartland,  Summers  and  Heydrick. 
Some  class  to  that  bunch  when  out  in  full  force. 
The  end  would  be  pleasant,  but  for  that  damned  R.  E. 

Morse, 

Now  should  any  one  ask  for  me,  say  that  I  pass, 
When  corks  are  all  popping,  well,  just  turn  down  a  glass. 
For  never  again  shall  women  and  wine 
Perform  an  operation  on  this  form  of  mine. 
When  reading  this  letter  just  laugh,  if  you  will; 
I  say  it's  my  last, 

Yours  truly, 

BILL. 


LUBRICATIONS  25 


THE  TOOLEY 

A     POOR   and   worn  out  "Tooley"   came   to   Heaven's 
A       gate, 
Found  drillers  and  producers  crowding;  sighed  and  said, 

"I'll  wait." 

For  I  have  been  a  driller's  servant,  always  poor  and  plain, 
And  should  I  crowd  up  boldly,  I  know  'twould  be  in  vain. 

"Come!  Enter  the  jeweled  portal,"  said  Peter;  "the  prize 

is  thine; 
For  you've  shoveled  the  coal  in  the  boiler  and  the  steam 

you  kept  was  fine; 

No  driller  did  you  keep  waiting,  so  enter  here  and  now — 
A  crown  of  life  eternal  is  waiting  to  press  thy  brow." 

The  Tooley  stood  and  trembled  and  cried:   "Peter,  dear, 

not  I, 
For  the  man  in  front  owned  a  hundred  wells,  I  cannot 

pass  him  by! 
Why,  I  never  owned  an  auto,  I  did  the  commonplace 

things, 
The  best  hand  that  I  ever  held  was  three  aces  and  a  pair 

of  kings." 

"Why,  I  scrubbed  up  the  derrick  floor;  in  the  coldest 
room  I  slept; 

I  washed  the  driller's  jacket;  the  towels  were  clean  that 
I  kept; 

My  bits  have  broken  and  battered,  drilling  the  'Big  Injun 
sand'; 

I've  lied  like  a  heathen  to  the  contractor,  in  this,  a 
Christian  land. 

Why,  I've  stolen  the  farmer's  chickens  (I  swear  it's  the 
truth  I  tell) ; 

Hid  their  bones  in  the  pumpings,  cooked  them  in  the  ex 
haust  at  the  well. 


26 LUBRICATIONS 

I'm  old  and  battered  and  weary;    warped  and  gray  and 

bent; 
I've  received  no  chants  of  glory,  the  world's  been  good; 

I'm  content." 

"Arise!"  cried   the  waiting  Peter;   "I  give  you  eternal 

youth, 
For  you  are  the  only  Tooley  that  has  come  here  and 

spoken  the  truth; 
I  place  this  crown  on  your  forehead,  place  you  where 

angels  sing, 
For  if  you  stole  the  ROOSTER,  you  got  only  the  backbone 

and  wings." 

MORAL:  The  driller  and  producers  got  the  white  meat. 


TO  GUSHING 
A  la  Grantland  Rice 

W/"HETHER  we  think  your  day  is  past, 
"  Whether  we  think  you've  gone  to  stay 
Among  the  "has-been"  gushers  at  last; 

Whether  we  think  you've  had  your  day; 
Although  you'll  never  produce  the  oil, 

You  did  in  the  days  gone  by, 
You  changed  to  the  Prince  the  man  of  toil 
Before  they  sucked  you  dry. 

Whether  your  arteries  are  hardened  and  old 

And  have  ceased  response  to  the  bit; 
They  have  bled  you  well  for  your  liquid  gold 

The  bases  were  full  when  you  hit. 
You  may  come  back  with  a  flash  once  more, 

Where  veins  have  sharply  turned, 
Overlooked  by  the  men  who  bore, 

But  the  market  you've  scarred  and  burned. 


LUBRICATIONS  27 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  ROUSTABOUT 

TTE  has  plodded  through  the  Beech-woods, 

Through  the  snow  of  Bradford's  hills; 
He  has  hustled  for  his  daily  food 

Across  the  frozen  rills. 
His  load  would  shame  the  burro 

That  he  carted  o'er  the  lease; 
There  were  callouses  on  his  shoulders, 

His  clothes  were  covered  with  grease. 
He  had  left  his  home  in  Parker 

To  see  the  gusher  spout, 
On  great  bleak  hills  of  Bradford 

And  to  be  a  roustabout. 
The  "Tie-path"  was  a  long  one 

From  Bradford  to  his  home; 
He  had  written  twice  for  money, 

With  a  promise  ne'er  to  roam. 
After  supper  in  the  evening 

He  would  go  and  call  his  name 
At  the  postofflce  'round  the  corner, 

But  the  remittance  never  came. 


We  saw  him  next  at  Butler, 

He  was  a  Farm-Boss,  so  he  said; 
And  the  hat  he  wore  at  Bixford 

Didn't  begin  to  cover  his  head. 
He  took  a  position  at  Washington,  — 

A  position,  and  not  a  job, 
Where  the  boys  all  called  him  Mister, — 

They  were  fired  if  they  called  him  Bob. 
Manager  they  called  him  at  Mannington, 

With  a  stenographer  his  thoughts  to  indite, 
Twas  hard  to  hold  hands  with  Robert 

And  stenograph  what  he  wanted  to  write. 


28 LUBR1CA  T1ONS 

Things  for  Robert  came  quite  easy, 

Yet  the  woman  that  toiled  all  her  life 

Just  sat  at  home  with  the  children, 
Satisfied  as  the  manager's  wife. 

The  interests  he  had,  they  were  many, 

Owned  tools,  and  some  people  say 
That  he  had  a  very  large  interest 

In  a  lease,  making  five  hundred  per  day. 
But  up  in  that  office  on  Broadway 

Where  the  Octopus  lies  coiled  in  his  lair 
Awaiting  the  reports  of  its  servants, 

This  rumor  impregnates  the  air. 
It  called  for  immediate  action, 

For  John  D.  must  own  all  the  oil— 
The  idea!   that  one  of  his  trusties 

Should  get  just  one  lease  from  his  toil; 
He  immediately  wired  Mister  Robert 

His  production  at  once  he  must  sell; 
The  reply  "John"  received  was  a  corker — 

The  message  read :  "You  go  to  H 1." 

He  had  more  to  pack  in  his  "Turkey" 
Than  when  he  left  home  on  the  rocks; 

Then  his  suit  case  contained  fifty-four  pieces, 
A  deck  of  cards,  and  a  pair  of  old  socks. 

But  now  it  was  bursting  with  clothing, 

There  were  collars  and  cuffs  and  cravats, 

A  white  vest  and  silk  underwear  plenty, 

And  one  of  "them"  new-fangled  silk  hats. 

The  men  all  liked  chesty  Robert, 
Since  he  had  got  over  his  pride, 

And  came  from  all  points  to  bid  him  farewell- 
There  was  one  big-hearted  fellow  that  cried. 

As  he  stood  on  the  rear  end  of  the  Pullman, 
He  waved  his  silk  hat  to  the  boys: 

So  long  to  you,  friends  and  old  comrades, 
You'll  hear  from  me  soon  from  Ill'nois." 


LUBRICATIONS 29 

Lucky?   Why  everything  Robert  went  into 

Was  just  like  old  wheat  in  the  mill, 
And  nature  unburdened  her  secrets 

To  point  out  the  right  spot  to  drill. 
He's  as  rich  as  the  proverbial  Croesus, 

And  sits  in  a  large  roller  chair, 
At  the  top  of  a  sky-scraping  building, 

Where  he  breathes  altitudinous  air. 
In  a  "buzz  wagon"  he  comes  to  his  office, 

Eats  luncheon  at  twelve,  dines  at  five; 
He  just  loves  the  classic  Grand  Opera; 

He's  the  greatest  art  critic  alive. 
They  say  he's  educated  and  cultured, 

An  authority  on  poetry  and  art, 
Reads  Virgil's  orations  for  pastime, 

The  Iliad  he  knows  all  by  heart. 
His  taste  for  "sow-belly"  has  left  him, 

And  Arbuckle's  Jav  he  can't  stand; 
He  craves  dishes  that  sound  "a  la  Creole," 

And  must  have  the  accompanying  band. 


OUR  FLAG 

"DAPTIZED  with  shot  and  shell 
And  drenched  in  patriots'  blood, 
What  stories  she  could  tell 

Of  how  for  right  she  stood. 
An  emblem  of  the  free, 

We  men  of  this  proud  state 
Are  part  and  parcel,  you  and  me, 

Of  what  has  made  her  great. 
Long  may  the  handsome  banner  wave 

Above  our  peaceful  home, 
And  plant  it  o'er  our  lonely  grave 

When  called  to  God's  white  throne. 


30  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  TRUTH 

TF  you're  waking  kick  me  early,  kick  me  early  won't  you, 

A     dear? 

For  you  have  punched  my  meal  ticket  all  this  bloomin' 

year. 

It  was  a  happy  springtime  the  best  I'd  ever  seen, 
Until  you  cut  the  price  of  oil,  and  jarred  me  from  my 
dream. 

I'll  give  away  my  pumping  wells,  for  my  fortune's  well 

nigh  spent, 
The  banker  holds  the  deed  of  trust,  and  I  cannot  pay  my 

rent; 

There'll  never  be  a  glad  new  year  for  Oklahoma  oil, 
For  Mag  and  Mac  and  Standard  Oil  have  robbed  them  of 

their  toil. 

They'll  not  renew  the  Osage  lease,  now  mark  well  what 

I  say, 
No  matter  how  the  Brennans  talk,  or  the  Kellys,  and 

Judge  Shea; 
The  Osage  cow  is  a  farrow  now,  they've  milked  her  clean 

and  dry, 
In  nineteen  sixteen,  is  twenty  years,  so  let's  let  the  old 

lease  die. 


LUBRICATIONS  31 


THE  LEASER'S  ARGUMENT 

A    LEASER  went  to  work  one  day; 
•^  A  norther  swept  the  moor; 
He  went  his  cheerful  kindly  way 

To  help  a  worthy  poor. 
He  found  the  ranchman  at  his  home 

He  grabbed  his  horny  hand, 
And  said,  I'm  glad  you  are  alone 

For  I  want  to  lease  your  land. 

You've  made  no  crops,  the  leaser  said, 

You  have  nothing  for  your  toil, 
I'll  drill  a  well,  the  leaser  plead, 

That  will  make  you  rich  with  oil. 
No  more  you'll  eat  the  sour  dough 

But  pie  and  cake  for  your'n; 
Your  wife  won't  cut  the  wood,  I  know, 

For  you'll  have  gas  to  burn. 

It's  not  a  dream  that  soon  will  fade 

The  facts  are  cold  as  steel; 
You'll  cease  to  drive  that  Pinto  jade, 

You'll  sit  behind  the  wheel; 
You'll  leave  the  farm,  and  go  to  to  town 

With  Mayme,  and  Jim,  and  Lee, 
You'll  have  a  cottage  painted  brown 

If  you'll  lease  your  land  to  me. 

WHAT  HAPPENED 

He  grabbed  that  leaser  by  his  clothes, 

With  one  hand  yanked  his  hair, 
He  smashed  him  on  the  face  and  nose, 

And  tore  his  clothes  for  fair; 
He  threw  him  on  the  frozen  clay, 

He  kicked  him  where  he  sits, 
The  leaser  dodged  and  got  away, 

For  the  farm  wasn't  worth  "two-bits." 


32  LUBRICATIONS 


MORE  PIPE  LINES 

CHOULD  you  ask  the  needs  of  Oil  Men, 
^    With  their  great  and  flush  production 
And  the  pipe  lines  goading,  goading 

Them  to  dire  and  swift  destruction; 
When  the  shylocks  and  the  bankers 

Show  their  ledger  red  from  usage, 
And  their  credit  balance  distant 

From  expense  of  their  construction; 
With  the  grocer,  and  the  meat  man, 

Looking  stern  at  other  orders; 
And  the  gasoline  for  last  month 

For  the  classic  aut-to-mo-bile, 
Not  yet  paid  for  at  the  garage, 

Wifey  wearing  last  year's  bonnet; 
This  is  not  an  idle  sonnet, 

It's  the  truth  and  I  can  prove  it 
By  the  needs  of  all  the  Oil  Men. 

What  they  need,  if  you  should  ask  me, 
It  is  pipe  lines  with  large  holes  in, 

It  is  stations  with  large  pumps  in, 
And  the  market  broad  and  worldly, 

This  is  then  the  needs  of  Oil  Men. 


LUBRICATIONS  33 


WHEN  IT'S  ALL  OFF 

~P)ON'T  bury  me  in  a  graveyard,  when  I  have  traveled 

*-*   west, 

But  bury  me  near  an  oil-field,  the  place  that  I've  loved 

best; 

An  anvil  for  a  pillow,  and  on  it  lay  my  head. 
And  seal  my  giave  with  paraffin  when  I  am  dead. 

When  it's  all  off,  throw  down  a  bellows  for  my  bed, 
And  light  the  way  with  "yellow  dogs"  and  set  them  at  my 

head; 

There  where  I've  struggled  'long  my  happy  way, 
Where  I'll  feel  the  auger  pounding;  there  I'll  meet  the 

day. 

When  it's  all  off,  let  me  hear  the  derrick  groan,  as  man 

alive; 

Let  the  beam  whine  above  me,  and  let  the  engine  drive; 
And  when  the  tools  are  piled,  and  the  cable's  off  and 

dried, 
Let  me  lay  where  I  can  feel  it  all,  when  I  have  died. 


34  LUBRICATIONS 


IRISH  MARY 

T^ONT  know  "Irish  Mary"?    You  must  be  young  in  the 

IJ    trade, 

For  almost  a  half  a  century  she's  been  called  the  "oil- 
country  jade." 

No  door  did  she  ever  find  open;  no  children  played  at 
her  knee, 

For  she  was  a  broken  old  derelict,  on  a  turbulent  human 
sea. 

She  curses,  she  rants  in  her  frenzy — she  swears  she's  as 
good  as  the  best; 

She  "digs"  with  her  gnarled  fingers,  a  crucifix  from  the 
sunken  old  breast; 

The  children  all  run  when  they  see  her — young  woman 
hood  catches  its  breath; 

My  God,  she  was  a  horrible  vision — stumbling  on  and  on, 
until  death. 

They  called  her  old  "Irish  Mary" — no  one  knew  aught  of 

her  past; 
She  was  one  of  the  first  in  the  new  oil-fields  —  usually 

stayed  'till  the  last. 
She  drank  the  "speak-easy  whiskey" — the  roulette  board 

was  her  bed 
'Till   the  dive-keeper  got  over  virtuous,   then  the   cold 

ground  she  gets  in  its  stead. 

I  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  her — it  was  a  cold  and  a 

boisterous  night; 
The  snow  blew  thro'  cracks  in  the  derrick,  the  wind  was 

out  in  its  might; 
I  heard  a  knock  at  the  walk-side  door,  I  heard  it  again 

and  again; 
The  wind  howled  louder  and  louder,  and  the  derrick 

groaned  as  in  pain. 


LUBRICATIONS 35 

What's  that?  A  woman's  voice — like  the  wail  of  a  soul  in 

despair! 
I  opened  the  door  and  there  on  the  walk  lay  Mary  with 

disheveled  hair. 
We  gently  carried  her   into  the    light.    The   face    was 

wrinkled  and  old, 
Swollen  and  beaten  by  the  ice-flakes  blue  and  tumid  from 

cold. 

I  chafed  and  rubbed  her  dirty  hands — My  God,  'twas  a 

gruesome  sight, 
The  breath  was  foul  with  whiskey;  a  soul  went  to  Hell 

that  night. 
With  the  crucifix  clasped  in  her  fingers,  she  kissed  it  o'er 

and  o'er — 
The  features  of  "Irish  Mary"  are  known  in  the  oil-fields 

no  more. 


36  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  GHOST  OF  BARNEY  THOLOGO 

T  WAS  sitting,  sadly  dreaming  of  my  legal  ship  careening, 

O'er  court-house  billows  and  their  angry  roar; 
Through  those  big  books  still  a-dreaming, 
When  I  heard  some  one  tapping — rapping  at  my  ofiice 

door. 

"  Tis  the  wind,"  I  muttered  faintly,  "merely  this  and  noth 
ing  more; 
Just  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Back  unto  my  volume  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
When  again  I  heard  the  tapping — somewhat  louder 

than  before— 
Surely,  I  am  not  mistaken,  some  one's  rapping  at  my  office 

door. 
I  must  quell  the  throbbin'  heart-beats  and  this  mystery 

explore." 

Went  I  then  in  fear  and  trembling,  to  this  mystery  explore. 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Open  then  I  flung  the  screen-door,  with  my  heart  all  in  a 

flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Indian  wrapped  in  blanket, 

as  of  yore; 

Now  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  Ghost  of  Barney  at  the  door, 
Standing  there  like  sculptured  marble,  in  the  frameway 

of  the  door; 
It  was  Barney,  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  his  black  eyes  peering,  long  I  stood  there  won 
dering,  fearing, 

Thinking  thoughts  no  human  being  ever  dared  to 
think  before; 


LUBRICATIONS 37 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  his  features  gave  no 

token 
Of  the  thoughts  that  were  unspoken;  I  had  seen  that  face 

before, 
For  it  was  the  face  of  Barney,  wandering  from  his  nightly 

shore — 
Barney  Tholoco,  nothing  more. 

"Tell  me,  Barne>,  tell  me,  why  you  left  night's  Plutonian 

shore? 
For  you're  dead  as  all  good  Injuns,  courts  have  said  so 

long  before. 

A  well  was  flowing  on  the  Cimarron's  winding  shore." 
Yet  he  stood  there,  all  undaunted,  as  if  he  was  a  thing 

enchanted. 
"Please  go  back  to  Stygian  darkness,  please  go  back,  I 

thee  implore." 
And  the  redman's  only  answer — "Nevermore!" 

Then  he  rose  as  if  departing,  "Ghost  or  Devil,"  I  shrieked, 

up-starting, 

"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest,  and  the  night's  Plu 
tonian  shore. 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken."    Then  he  opened  wide 
the  door. 

In  there  filed  a  thousand    phantoms,    Tommy   Atkinses 
galore, 

And  the  room  was  filled  with  Tommies  from  the  window 

to  the  door — 
Filled  with  Tommies  to  the  door. 

Why  should  I  stand  there  and  cavil — if  they're  sent  by 

God  or  devil, 
Whether  from  the  dome  inverted,  or  from  the  dark 

and  Stygian  shore, 
I  will  take  those  phantom  leases.     Slipped  I  'round  and 

locked  the  door. 


LUBRICATIONS 


Then  I  asked  how  many  Tommies,  and  they  answered, 

"We're  a  score." 
The  phantoms  answered  many  more. 

Turned  I  then  to  solemn  Barney,  elbows  resting  on  his 

knees, 
Asked  him  of  his  many  children,  numerous  as  the 

forest  trees. 
Then  I  wrote  the  leases  quickly,  fearing  there'd  be  many 

more; 
Signed  and  sealed  them  in  the  office,  witnessed  by  the 

devil's  spore. 
Then  I  'wakened,  startled,  frighted,  at  the  creaking  of 

the  door, 
To  find  the  bottle  clean  and  empty  —  here's  my  prom 

ise—  NEVERMORE. 


LUBRICATIONS  39 


TOMMY  ATKINS 

THE  LAWYER'S  MEAL  TICKET  AND  THE  GRAFTER'S  HEAVEN 

VOU  have  asked  me  for  a  story 

Of  traditions,  myths  and  legends 
That  concern  one  Tommy  Atkins. 
There  are  many,  many  Atkins, 
Each  one  darker  than  the  other, 
Black  of  heart  and  very  crafty, 
Each  one  claims  he  has  no  brothers. 
Every  oil  man  has  a  Tommy 
Just  as  good  as  any  other. 

What  about  him  do  you  ask  me? 
Listen  now  and  I  will  tell  you. 
In  the  valley  of  the  Cimarron, 
In  the  verdant,  silent  valley, 
Dwelt  the  forebear  of  this  Tommy. 
Veiled  in  mystery  was  this  maiden, 
No  one  knew  aught  of  her  husband, 
No  one  knew  aught  of  her  Tommy, 
Each  of  which  she  may  have  had  one. 
No  one  seems  to  care  at  this  time. 
When  the  golden  flow  was  opened 
Straightway  came  the  men  of  wisdom, 
Rich  in  ways  and  means  so  crafty, 
Rich  in  years  of  oil  production. 
Thro'  the  records  grim  and  musty 
Hunted  they  for  birth  of  Tommy; 
Found  his  wonderous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  lived  and  died  in  suffering 
Just  before  the  golden  harvest 
Had  he  lived  that  he'd  been  heir  to. 
Now,  across  his  quiet  head-stone — 
Head-stone  without  an  inscription — 


40 LUBRICATIONS 

Are  lawyers  pleading,  arguing  wisely 
That  there  is  a  real  live  Tommy, 
That  the  grave  of  Tommy's  vacant. 
Others  argue,  just  as  wisely, 
That  there  never  was  a  Tommy, 
That  Tom's  enrollment  never  happened, 
While  others  look  on  with  compassion, 
Each  of  which  has  the  real  and  only 
Tommy  Atkins  of  the  Cimarron. 

Why  this  quarrel  for  wasted  vale-land 

Go  subdue  your  stubborn  natures, 

For  Tommy  Atkins  is  a  myth. 

Go  allay  your  thirst  and  fevers— 

If  there  was  a  real  Tom  Atkins 

List  the  north  winds  they  will  tell  you 

That  they'd  dig  him  from  the  graveyard, 

Take  his  bones  and  wire  together 

To  exhibit  in  the  court-house, 

Just  to  show  the  phoney  Tommies 

That  the  only  Tommy  lived, 

And  we  weary  of  your  lawsuits, 

Of  your  inharmonious  discords, 

And  the  north  wind  passing  whispers. 

All  this  land  is  the  whole  nation's — 

Tommy  Atkins  is  a  myth. 

Solomon  and  all  Wisdom  could  not  handle  the  ques 
tions  that  confront  the  courts  of  Oklahoma. 

For 

He  had  lived  with  Hebrews,  where  the  best  was  like  the 

worst; 
His  laws  the  Ten  Commandments,  he  could  always  quench 

his  thirst. 

When  the  temple  bells  called  Solomon  to  issue  his  decrees 
He  didn't  have  the  lawyers,  to  swarm  around  like  bees. 
The  problems  that  confronted  him  he  solved  them  right 

off  hand, 


LUBRICATIONS 41 

But  out  there  in  Jerusalem,  they  had  no  Atkins  land. 

So  if  Solomon  had  the  questions  that  confront  our  district 

court 
He  would  be  a  bum  old  piker  and  not  the  wise  old  sport. 


THE  OIL  COUNTRY  TOMMY  ATKINS 

(With  apologies  to  Kipling) 

WENT  into  the  court  'ouse  to  'ear  what  I  could  'ear — 
The  judge  'e  up  and  sez  to  me,  "What  are  ye  doin'  'ere?' 
The  lawyers  at  the  bar  they  laughed  and  giggled  fit  to  die, 
For  they  'ad  the  ONLY  Tommy — they  'ad  no  use  for  I. 

O,  they's  a  Tommy  or  they  ain't  a  Tommy,  so  chase  your 
self  away, 

But  they'll  need  this  Tommy  Atkins  when  the  court  is  in 
full  sway; 

When  the  court  is  in  full  sway,  me  boys,  when  the  court 
is  in  full  sway, 

For  they  IS  a  Tommy  Atkins,  both  Page  and  Josey  say. 

Page  and  Josey  ain't  no  'eroes,  they  ain't  no  blackguards 

too, 
They're  just  shrewd  business  oil  men,  just  like  me  and 

you; 

And  sometimes  if  their  conduct  isn't  all  our  fancy  paints 
Just  remember  all  the  oil  men  don't  grow  into  plaster 

saints. 

We  need  a  Tommy  Atkins,  and  we'll  get  one,  never  mind, 
We'll  need  'im  on  the  witness  stand,  when  there's  trouble 

in  the  wind, 
When  there's  trouble  in  the  wind  me  boys,  when  there's 

trouble  in  the  wind, 
Just  any  old  black  nigger,  for  our  courts  are  always  blind. 


42 LUBRICATIONS 

We  leased  the  land  from  Tommy's  ma,  while  Tommy  was 

asleep, 
We've  got  our  papers  signed  by  her,  'twas  a  shame  they 

were  so  cheap; 

We  knew  that  Tommy  was  a  myth,  his  mother  was  a  joke; 
We  took  our  chance  with  justice  and  we'll  law  them  'till 

they're  broke. 

For  with  Tommy  here  and  Tommy  there,  and  Tommy 

just  outside, 

But  it's  fine  hotels  for  Tommy  when  the  suit  is  on  inside; 
When  the  suit  is  on  inside,  me  boys,  and  the  lawyers 

always  rave, 
We  will  have  a  Tommy  Atkins,  if  we  dig  'im  from  the 

grave. 

Tommy  Atkins'  mother  must  of  had  triplets  galore, 
Each  time  of  her  confinement  she  must  have  had  a  score; 
For  they  are  finding  Tommy  Atkinses  in  every  wood  and 

dell, 
And  the  grafting  shyster  lawyers  make  the  devil  smile  in 

hell. 

For  Tommy  Atkins'  father  must  have  been  a  prolific  soul, 
When  first  oil  was  discovered  how  the  Tommys  in  did  roll, 
How  the  Tommys  in  did  roll,  me  boys,  a  hundred  in  a  day, 
For  there's  a  thousand  Tommy  Atkinses,  so  Page  and 
Josey  say. 


ALAS!  POOR  PADEN— WE  KNEW  HER 
DISPOSITION 

ALAS!   poor  Paden,  we  knew  her  well  (Oil  Well) 

**-  She  "busted"  the  market  and  simply  raised  H 1. 

Well,  we  waited  and  watched,  admired  their  gall, 
Of  boosting  a  gusher,  when  they'd  nothing  a-tall— 
We  groaned  at  expense,  that  the  wise  ones  were  laden, 
With  geology,  biology,  criminology  at  Paden. 


LUBRICATIONS 43 

How  they  delved  in  that  mystery,  that  little  dark  hole, 
How  the  wires  rang  out,  as  they  perjured  their  soul; 
But  before  they  drilled  in,  they  wired  New  York 
For  the  guys  with  the  high-brows,  that  will  grow  into  pork, 
And  they  all  came  down  to  see  this  mystery  explored, 
And  see  their  wealth  trickling  down  the  hole  that  they 

bored; 

For  they  were  as  ignorant  as  a  sweet  country  maiden, 
But  paragorically  speaking  they  got  wisdom  at  Paden. 

They'll  rush  back  to  New  York  with  a  wail  and  a  whine, 
And  get  out  their  axes,  cut  the  price  a  thin  dime, 
For  tips  to  the  porters,  livery,  auto  and  sich 
Hurts  a  "high-brow"  like  blazes,  even  if  rich. 
To  their  grandsons  they'll  tell  in  monkey-like  chatter 
How  the  great  Paden  well  was  drilled  into  water, 
And  how  this  dear  child  with  gold  would  be  laden, 
Had  they  NOT  played  geology  down  there  at  Paden. 

AFTERWORD 

All  the  science  and  faith  in  this  world  or  the 
world  to  come  will  not  make  a  gusher  out  of  a 
Sixty  Barrel  Well.  Geology  may  have  found  Calamites 
cannaeformis,  or  they  may  have  found  some  skulls  Dino- 
therium  giganteum  or  some  Chamfered  and  imbricated 
scales,  but  none  of  these  seemed  to  have  the  Oleaginous 
matter  in  sufficient  quantities  to  spontaneously  gush  forth 
the  flow  of  gold  anticipated,  aye,  even  commanded  by 
the  pampered  sons  of  Broadway.  If  they  insisted  on 
seeing  oil  flow  I  would  suggest  that  they  shoot  a  42-inch 
centimeter  shell  through  fifty-five  thousand  barrel  tanks. 
That  would  have  been  better  sport  than  shooting  a  "Dago" 
camp  in  Colorado. 


44  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  OIL  COUNTRY  VAMPIRE 

A    FOOL  there  was  and  he  drilled  a  hole. 
•^  Even  as  you  and  I. 
He  selected  the  spot  and  bet  his  roll, 
He   sold;  the  stock   and  perjured  his   soul, 
Even  as  you  and  I. 

Twas  a  judgment  test  and  he  used  his  best, 

As  he  sat  at  eventide, 

And  dreamed  a  dream  of  a  feathered  nest, 
The  comfort  he'd  have  in  the  years  of  rest, 

But  he  found  his  "Dream-child"  lied. 

A  fool  there  was  and  he  gave  his  note, 

Even  as  you  and  I. 

For  stock  in  a  "Wild-cat  well,"  he  wrote— 
The  dividends  did  not  seem  so  remote- 
He  felt  very  much  like  a  bonded  "Bloat," 

Even  as  you  and  I. 

Oh!   the  cents  we  lose,  and  the  sense  we  lose 

Figuring  dividends  with  pride. 
In  castles  of  air,  we  had  builded  there 
In  vision  of  beauty  with  never  a  care, 

Yet  we  were  not  satisfied. 

The  fool  went  broke  to  his  last  red  cent, 

Even  as  you  and  I. 

The  well  was  dry  and  the  money  was  spent. 
Nobody  cared  where  the  plunger  went; 
Yet  he  gave  tongue  to  a  loud  lament, 

Even  as  you  and  I. 

He  cared  not  for  loss,  for  money  is  dross. 

The  reason  that  poor  fool  cried, 

It  was  when  he  had  known,  he  was  scraped  to  the  bone, 
That  he  was  thrown  on  the  world  alone, 

Twas  failure  that  hurt  his  pride. 


LUBRICATIONS  45 


T^OWN  around  Muskogee  they  lead  the  simple  life, 

But  their  popular  Oil  Editor  is  always  seeking  strife; 
His  feet  are  awful  tender,  has  the  wisdom  of  the  owl, 
And  he  uses  dum-dum  bullets  which  all  experts  say  are 
foul. 

He  kin  take  a  little  oil  dope,  not  over  two  lines  long, 
And  make  a  column  story  when  he  is  going  strong; 
He  can  write  about  the  storage  with  all  its  downs  and  ups ; 
He  can  tell  the  date  exactly  when  the  bull-wheel-dog  had 
pups. 

He  kin  tell  each  blooming  error  in  the  Prairie's  garbled 

table, 
And  is  the  only  honest  interpreter  of  the  Pipe  Line  and  its 

fable; 
He  kin  punctuate  the  Pipe  Line  Runs,  and  tell  'em  right 

off  hand; 
He  knows  the  favorable  comments    as   the    ranchman 

knows  his  brand. 

He  criticizes  ignorance,  among  our  great  and  small, 
He's  a  serious  minded  "pusson"  with  his  belly  full  of  gall. 
The  Editor  of  the  Phoenix    should    advance    Patricka 

Moore, 
For  he's  slaughtered  all  the  dopesters,  loves   to  wade 

around  in  gore. 


46  LUBRICATIONS 

EAST  OR  WEST  IT  IS  THE  SAME  OLD 
THING 

TT  is  the  same  old  farmer,  in  the  same  old  place, 

The  same  old  whiskers  on  the  same  old  face; 
The  same  old  woman  and  the  same  old  wail, 
The  same  old  piker  and  his  same  old  tale; 
The  same  old  story  with  the  same  twinkling  eye, 
To  perforate  the  acres  tho'  they  all  are  dry. 
The  same  livery  horses,  the  same  old  rig, 
The  same  old  buggy  top  is  on  the  same  "old  pig"; 
The  same  old  girl,  the  same  dainty  feet, 
The  same  old  hominy  and  the  same  dirty  sheet; 
The  same  old  office  where  you  hear  the  same  old  lies; 
The  same  old  prunes,  and  the  same  old  pies, 
The  same  old  dining-room,  the  same  broken  chair, 
The  same  old  side  meat,  with  the  same  teat  and  hair. 
It  is  the  same  old  story  when  you  want  to  pay  your  fees, 
We  never  make  a  charge,  you  can  pay  what  you  please. 
The  same  old  landlady,  the  same  daughter  sweet, 
The  same  favorite  boarder  makes  your  misery  complete. 
The  same  lavatory,  the  same  dinner  bell, 
The  same  old  boarders,  wish  for  the  same  old  hell; 
The  same  old  rain,  the  same  old  slime, 
The  same  old  railroad,  four  hours  behind  time; 
The  same  old  skinner,  with  the  same  old  smile, 
With  the  same  evil  thought  in  the  same  old  style; 
Will  the  same  old  heaven  be  the  same  sweet  place, 
For  the  same  weary  leaser,  with  the  same  smiling  face, 
Or  the  same  old  hell  with  its  same  old  fire, 
Fry  the  wronged  piker  because  he's  such  a  liar? 

But  if  we  get  up  yonder  where  the  streets  are  paved  with 

gold, 

Will  we  have  to  listen  to  stories  so  often  told? 
"Me  and  my  old  woman  have  worked  so  hard  and  long, 
For  this  farm  of  forty  acres,  now  lease  it  for  a  song? 
If  so,  O,  Good  Lord,  spare  us  from  the  anguish  and  the 

pain, 
And  send  us  down  to  Hades  to  forever  there  remain. 


LUBRICATIONS  47 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAMENT 

'"THEY'VE  moved  the  Postoffice,  William, 

From  the  little  shack  on  B — 
Moved  it  from  that  tumbled-in  building, 

Where  it's  been  since  seventy- three; 
Another  "land-mark"  gone,  William, 

A  mile-stone  passed  in  a  stride, 
Installed  in  that  pressed  brick  building 

That  St.  Albans  points  to  with  pride. 
Yes,  they've  moved  the  Postoffice,  William, 

Have  furnished  it  new  and  complete 
With  gas  and  electricity  lighted, 

And  warmed  by  that  new-fangled  heat; 
Why,  Bill,  they  have  six  hundred  boxes, 

And  it  is  finished  in  quarter-sawed  oak; 
We  may  be  old  and  back  numbers, 

But  that  finery  all  looks  like  a  joke. 
Mail  passed  thro'  windows  of  gold,  William, 

Wouldn't  be  any  sweeter  to  you 
Than  mail  you  received  from  the  broken  down  door, 

From  the  sweetheart  that  loved  you  so  true. 
They  are  setting  the  pace  pretty  fast,  Bill, 

They'll  carry  you  and  me  off  our  feet; 
Why,  store  keepers  growl  when  you  spit  on  the  floor, 

The  next  thing  they'll  be  paving  our  street. 
We  have  seen  many  changes,  friend  William, 

From  the  rumbling  old  hack  to  the  trains; 
From  the  curb  money  broker  to  banker, 

But  our  old-fashioned  Postmistress  remains. 
The  spring  of  youth's  been  discovered, 

Years  and  years  she  has  handled  the  mails; 
Generations  unborn  will  get  mail  from  her  hand, 

For  eternal  youth  never  fails. 
They  say,  Bill,  in  this  new  office 

That  once  a  week  they're  going  to  sweep; 


48 LUBRICATIONS 

A  sign  will  be  over  the  door-way, 

Gentlemen  will  please  clean  their  feet; 
If  they  get  so  "blooming  persnickety, 

I'll  go  to  Washington  and  see 
If  we  can't  move  it  back  to  B  street 

As  it  was  in  seventy-three. 
Yes,  they've  moved  the  Postoffice,  William, 

From  the  little  shack  down  on  B; 
We'll  have  to  get  used  to  the  modern  ways, 

We've  just  got  to  do  it,  you  and  me. 
They  are  not  satisfied  as  yet,  William, 

With  the  Postoffice,  new  and  bright, 
They  object  to  our  dear  old  Postmistress 

Because  of  her  failing  sight. 
They  slipped  away  to  the  capital,  Bill, 

To  play  their  political  game, 
Adopting  the  gumshoe  methods, 

Be  it  said  of  them  to  their  shame. 
For  thirty-eight  years,  more  or  less,  Bill, 

Her  books  have  been  kept  clean  and  white, 
From  a  few  business  letters  and  missives 

To  mail  by  carloads  each  night. 
To  her  trust  she  has  always  been  true,  Bill, 

Of  the  Inspector  she  had  no  fears, 
I've  complained  at  the  service  and  growled,  Friend, 

But  I  apologize  tonight,  Bill,  with  tears. 
Thousands  upon  thousands  she's  handled,  Bill, 

With  never  a  blot  on  her  name; 
She  deserves  something  better,  friend  William, 

Than  used,  and  thrown  aside,  like  a  cane. 
I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  her,  William, 

And  on  her  old  cheek  you  could  trace 
The  signs  of  grief,  and  displeasure, 

Chiseled  deep  in  her  old  wrinkled  face. 
I  feel  very  badly  tonight,  William, 

That  ingratitude  at  our  capital  holds  sway; 
The  motto,  "Honor  to  Whom  it  is  Due,"  William, 

Stands  deserted,  along  the  highway. 


LUBRICATIONS  49 


O  YOU  KITTY! 

KITTY,  you're  a  darling— 

You're  a  sweet-faced  Indian  Queen. 
There  must  have  been  a  starling 

To  whisper  in  your  dream 
That  "Midco"  and  Fred  Aiken 

Had  large  bundles  of  the  green, 
And  you  could  do  the  raking 

To  crown  you,  Kate,  with  sheen. 

A  bonus,  dear  Miss  Fixico, 

Of  fifty  thousand  stones 
From  Aiken  and  the  Midco 

Must  have  scraped  them  to  the  bones. 
You  could  buy  a  good  young  man  with  that, 

A  white  one,  Red  or  Greek, 
And  if  you  won't  mind  one  that's  fat, 

For  myself  I  hope  to  speak. 

If  you'll  turn  to  me  what's  in  your  name, 

I'll  furnish  the  checks  all  right; 
I'll  show  you  how  to  spend  the  same 

Like  a  Christian  and  a  knight. 
You're  just  a  simple-minded  girl, 

Haven't  touched  life's  cup  of  gall, 
I  care  not  if  your  hair  don't  curl, 

I'll  help  you  spend  it  all. 


50  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  OIL-FIELD 

Suggested  by  the  fire  at  Tulsa,  Okla.,  where  five  men 
met  their  death  July  24,  1913.  Lighting  a  match  was  the 
cause. 


is  the  law  of  the  Oil-Field,  and  ever  it  must  be 

plain, 
She  must  kill  the  match-lighting  smoker,  the  cigarette- 

smoking  insane; 
Her  lives  are  valued  by  loved  ones,  her  men  are  as  good 

as  the  best; 
She  has  nurtured  them  all  on  her  bosom,  has  lulled  them 

oft  to  their  rest. 
When  her    hidden    treasures    are    punctured,    and    she 

gushes  forth  in  her  might, 
And  you  see  the  guy  rolling  his  "pimp-stick,"  feeling  his 

clothes  for  a  light  — 
Just  grab  up  the  "Porgie-jack-lever"  and  smash  him  over 

the  head- 
Drive  home  the  "rig-builders-hatchet,"  be  sure  that  this 

fool  is  dead; 
Drown  him  like  a  rat  in  the  river,  starve  him  like  the 

spawn  of  the  plains  — 
Leave  him  to  rot  near  his  folly,  poisoned  and  hollow  his 

veins. 
This  is  the  law  of  the  toiler,  the  ones  that  have  ever  been 

first, 
To  lay  cooling  hands  on  those  injured,  by  the  match- 

lighting  ninny  accursed; 
This  is  the  law  of  the  lowly,  the  millionaire  man  and  their 

spawn 
For  the  ones  who  carry  the  tinders,  death  must  be  sure 

and  swift  as  the  dawn. 
This  is  the  law  of  the  Oil-Field  —  that  before  you  may  raise 

the  latch, 
You    must    learn    that    more    lives    and    property    are 

destroyed  each  year  by  the  match; 


LUBRICATIONS 51 

Handsome  ones,  burned  crisp  and  distorted,  eyes  staring, 

red  and  aglare, 
These  branded  men,  they  confront  you,  these  are  the  facts 

that's  laid  bare. 

(With  apologies  to  Robert  W.  Service.) 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  TAME 

T  WANT  to  get  away  from  the  city, 
•*•  Where  squalor  is  seen  every  day, 
I  want  to  go  out  in  the  wildwood, 

In  highways  and  byways  in  May; 
Away  from  the  cursed  vile  city, 

Away  from  its  rumble  and  roar, 
Out  to  the  hills,  grand  and  silent, 

Where  the  lark  and  eagle  soar. 
Somehow  the  city  seems  lonely, 

True,  I  am  old  and  I'm  slow, 
But  the  city's  wild  cry  is  pathetic, 

It  hurts  me  and  I  just  have  to  go. 

Let  me  get  away  from  eyes  staring, 

Away  from  the  faces  so  grim; 
Let  me  pluck  beautiful  flowers 

Away  from  the  tumult  and  sin. 
Let  me  get  away  from  sky  scrapers, 

The  ones  that  are  builded  by  man, 
Lead  me  to  the  sky  piercing  mountains 

Builded  by  God's  own  plan. 
There  let  me  breathe  their  fragrance, 

Let  me  list  to  their  purring  streams, 
Let  me  grow  wild  like  the  flowers 

In  this,  the  land  of  my  dreams. 


52  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  FARMER'S  SAND 

ID  a  dry  one  come  in  out  at  Burk,  Louie? 

My  word,  what  a  cruel  blow! 
Why,  we  worked  like  blooming  Turks,  Louie, 

To  make  that  Roberts  well  flow. 
Dost  think  thou  art  deep  enough,  Louie? 

Let  me  hold  your  little  white  hand, 
We  knoweth  ours  is  big  and  rough,  Louie, 

But  'twill  brace  you  to  the  farmer's  sand. 

That  is  the  sand  you  know,  Louie, 

That  never  bef ore's  been  explored; 
It  is  one  with  the  rainbow  glow,  Louie, 

Its  innards  have  never  been  bored; 
It's  a  sand  that  lies  deep  in  the  earth,  Louie, 

A  sand  that  to  some  is  a  dream. 
We  have  tried  to  find  it  since  birth,  Louie, 

To  unseal  it  and  take  out  its  cream. 

Some  fellow  will  do  it  some  time,  Louie, 

When  done  it'll  be  an  awful  deep  well; 
It  will  take  a  long  drilling  line,  Louie, 

For  it  will  be  China,  oil,  gas,  or  hell. 
You  don't  know  where  it  is  found,  Louie? 

Now  listen  and  I'll  give  you  light, 
It  is  ten  thousand  feet  under  ground,  Louie, 

Now,  Louie,  don't  drop  dead  from  fright. 

If  you'd  drill  'till  you  punctured  Nick's  soul,  Louie, 

And  your  bank  book  was  painted  in  red, 
You'd  be  taking  the  farmer's  toll,  Louie, 

It  would  not  be  deep  enough,  so  he  said. 
Remember  that  only  wells  that  have  oil,  Louie, 

Will  satisfy  the  owners  of  land; 
Then  you'll  receive  kind  words  for  your  toil,  Louie, 

But  don't  try  for  the  old  farmer's  sand. 


LUBRICATIONS  53 


REMINISCENT 

TT/"HEN  you  were  a  Tooley  and  I  was  the  same 
"  Back  in  the  Bradford  day— 
We'd  no  auto  to  ride  the  mountain  side 

And  the  contractor  had  his  say; 
We  hammered  the  bit,  'till  we  threw  a  fit, 

While  the  steel  grew  cold  and  blue, 
With  our  sweaty  face,  'twas  a  driving  race, 

And  our  thoughts,  tho'  crude,  were  true. 

Careless  we  slaved,  and  careless  we  played, 

And  reckless  at  last  we  came; 
To  the  rainbow's  glow  and  life's  big  show 

In  the  blaze  and  the  flare  of  fame; 
How  they  smirked  and  smiled,  as  wealth  we  piled, 

We  were  gods  of  a  Mammon  age; 
We  were  in  the  spell  of  wealth  to  dwell, 

And  we  talked  like  a  slobbering  sage. 

Now  comes  the  thought,  what  price  we  bought 

The  pleasure,  and  tinsel,  and  fraud; 
Have  we  played  a  square  game  in  winning  our  fame, 

Are  we  still  the  noble  works  of  God? 
Or  has  grasping  for  gold  shriveled  our  soul 

And  blighted  a  life  free  from  care? 
Now  what  would  we  give,  to  go  back  there  and  live 

Where  wild  flowers  scent  the  pure  air? 

Where  birds  sound  a  warning  of  the  sunburst  of  morning, 

That  blends  with  the  beam's  plaintive  whine, 
And  the  whispering  breeze  converse  with  the  trees, 

And  pure  mountain  water  our  wine; 
Then  our  bits  cut  the  ditch,  now  we  are  rich, 

With  all  that  riches  can  buy. 
Have  we  counted  the  cost  in  what  we  have  lost? 

Then  why  for  the  old  life  do  we  sigh? 


54  LUBRICATIONS 


EDWIN  L.  DRAKE 

THE   DREAMER 

HPHOU,  the  dreamer,  hast  builded  cities  where  silence 

reigned  supreme; 
Thy  vision  was  within  the  soul — and  peered  behind  the 

future  screen. 
Amid  pastoral  scenes  where  sang  the  lark,  thy  sobs  and 

tears  came  from  a  broken  heart, 
And  blended  with  the  sneers  and  jeers  of  little  men  whose 

views  were  swart. 
Through  unknown  ages  the  voice  of  destiny  called  to 

thee  from  out  the  vast, 
To  hew  the  way,    to  blaze  the    trail  through    unknown 

rocks,  the  cloth  of  courage  at  thy  mast. 
Since  thou  hast  pioneered  the  way — the  jagged  spires  of 

wood  and  steel  pierce  the  new  world's  sky; 
The  pregnant  earth  yields  wealth — but  not  for  thee;   her 

golden  fluid  is  but  thy  dream's  reply. 
Homes  of  wealth  and  luster  are  set  upon  the  land  that 

thou  hast  found, 
Through  hurts  and  chills  and  hungry  cries  within  thyself, 

no  kindly  one  to  sooth  the  wound; 

Three  score  and  two  years  have  past.    A  thoughtless  pub 
lic  is  roused  to  honor  now  thy  name, 
In  brick  and  stone  and  flaming  torch — a  marble  bust  in 

the  hall  of  fame. 
Gold  pours  from  corners  of  the  earth  that  gave   thee 

name  and  gave  thee  birth, 
In  honor  of  thy  glorious  deeds  to  us  poor  mortals  of  this 

earth. 
A  public  benefactor  thou!    Thy  genius  is  God's  greatest 

gift; 
It  pulses  through  the  touring  car  and  splits  the  fleecy 

clouds  adrift. 
Oh !  wondrous  mind !  What  highways  open  up  their  scenes 

to  thee! 


EDWIN    L.    DRAKE 


LUBRICATIONS  55 

Centuries  unborn  will  rise  and  praise  the  conquerors  of 

the  air  and  sea; 
Walls  may  crumble,  empires  fall,  islands  will  rise  from 

out  the  sea; 
But  the  dreamer's  work  goes  on  and  on  and  blends  with 

all  eternity. 
To  thee,  Edwin  Drake,  and  your  pioneer  soul,  that's  why 

we  honor  thee  now — 
Thou  hast  made  the  world  richer  with  happier  homes;  to 

a  world's  benefactor  we  bow. 


TELL  THEM  AGAIN  TO  ME 

,  tell  me  a  tale  of  pioneer  days, 

Of  the  early  days  in  oil, 
Of  Colonel  Drake  and  Dan  O'Day 

And  the  fighting  of  old  George  Coil; 
Tell  us  of  days  on  the  old  Tarr  farm, 

Of  the  boarding  house  up  on  the  hill — 
Where  coffee  was  handed  to  you  lukewarm 

And  the  beans  were  cooked  with  skill. 
Tell  me  of  days  when  John  D.  R. 

Had  hair  on  his  old  bald  pate; 
When  Henry  M.  didn't  own  the  car 

That  he  used  to  travel  in  state. 
Tell  us  of  days  of  five  dollar  oil 

The  day  when  Cal  Payne  pulled  the  tongs, 
When  Archibald  rested  in  peace  from  his  toil 

And  his  life  was  one  sweet  song. 
Tell  us  of  days  when  Cap  Grace  was  a  kid, 

Great  heaven,  that's  too  ancient,  I  fear; 
For  that  dates  back  before  John  and  his  lid 

Covered  all  the  good  leases  that's  here. 
Tell  us  of  days  of  the  Parker  Exchange, 

Gee!    What  an  unappropriate  name! 


56 LUBRICATIONS 

For  entering  there  you  came  without  change 

As  you  bet  on  the  other  man's  game. 
Tell  of  Ben  Hogan  when  he  was  afloat 

Before  he  was  converted  and  reborn, 
Of  the  living  pictures  he  kept  on  the  boat, 

With  music  and  mirth  until  morn. 
Tell  us  of  days  when  the  Tooley  was  boss, 

When  Yonkins  "thumbed"  carefully  the  clamps, 
And  of  days  when  Morgue  Davis  never  was  cross, 

And  the  producers  were  men  and  not  tramps. 
Tell  us  of  days  when  Ed  Jennings  was  free, 

But  he  was  never  known  to  be  that, 
Except  when  he  paid  the  alderman  his  fee— 

At  that  so  I've  read  he  stands  pat. 
Tell  us  of  days  of  Bradford's  deep  snows, 

When  John  Eton  drummed  his  own  trade, 
And  told  to  the  buyer  a  tale  of  his  woes, 

And  his  clothes  were  not  tailor  made. 

Tell  them  again,  those  pioneer  days, 

How  those  giants  dragged  wealth  from  their  toil; 
Of  the  Arbuckle  Jav,  the  beans  and  the  maize 

They  were  fed  on  while  boring  for  oil. 
We  never  grow  weary  of  the  old,  old  tales 

Of  the  trials  of  that  bold  pioneer 
Who  'mid  snow  and  ice  and  his  own  dinner  pail 

Gave  the  comforts  of  home  with  its  cheer. 
To  the  old  pioneer  we  offer  this  toast: 

May  your  declining  old  days  be  serene; 
You've  suffered  on  earth  many  a  roast, 

When  dead  may  your  grave  be  kept  green. 


LUBRICA  TIONS 


GENIUS 

T  BEGAN  with  the  creation,  for  I  am  the  creator; 

Years  unborn  will  feel  my  magic  touch; 
Stones  will  be  reared  to  my  dedication 
For  my  vassals  are  the  years. 
No  race,  clime  or  condition  claim  me  as  their  own, 
The  scullion's  cabin,  or  marble  halls  my  home; 
I  put  the  miracle  solution  in  the  brain  of  man, 
To  stab  the  heavens  with  a  comb  of  spires. 
The  walls  of  empires  crumble  and  fall.    A  tidal  wave 
Sweeps  from  the  sea,  and  undermines  the  rock, 
But  I  go  on  forever.    The  millions  slave. 

I  drag  from  mother  earth  her  richest  treasures 

And  weave  her  jewels  in  a  crown  for  man; 

The  spring  of  eternal  youth  is  but  a  step, 

When  the  wizard's  brain  receives  the  ban. 

Aye,  the  devil's  work  comes  from  my  storehouse, 

The  steel  clad  leviathans,  the  shot,  the  shell, 

The  Nation's  weapons  but  the  warriors'  hell. 

The  trackless  forests,  the  unchartered  sea 

Are  the  printed  pages  of  a  book  to  me, 

For  I'm  the  maker  of  charts,  and  blaze  the  way. 

The  sprocket  wheel,  belts  of  steel,  the  whirling  wheel 

Are  the  fabrics  woven  by  my  hand. 


58  LUBRICATIONS 


LAMENT  TO  BACCHUS 

BACCHUS,  God  of  Rum  and  Mail  Pouch, 
My  poor  deluded  Bacchus,  would  that  I  had  drank 
The  spirits  for  you.    Rather  had  I  smoked  the  pipe 
That  gave  me  visions  of  gnomes  and  fairies. 
It  is  but  true  that  fairies  are  not  habitats  of  this  earth ; 
Neither  is  the  "Peach  Limb"  or  the  magnetic  needle 
Used  to  find  the  precious  fluid  that  mother  earth 
Has  hidden  so  carefully,  for  the  ages  past. 
You  have  been  a  gooH  old  sport,  and  wise  as  Solomon,  but 
Alas!  alas!  you  must  remember  the  fate  of  the  false 
Prophets  of  old.    How  sorry  I  am  to  tell  you,  that  the 
Nutty  houses  are  full  of  erring  Oil  Smellers; 
And  the  experts  shake  their  heads  and  mournfully  say, 
What  a  sad  case,  incurable  and  pitiful. 
Remember,  O  Bacchus,  there  is  only  a  step  between 
Experting  the  geological  formation  and  "damn-foolish 
ness." 

It  is  better,  Bacchus,  that  you  spend  your  time  riding 
Through  the  mesquite  and  cactus,  with  the  hot  winds  of 

Texas 

Fanning  or  burning  your  hardened  cheek,  than  to  spend 
Your  time  in  trying  to  convince  an  unregenerate  Oil  Man 
Who  seems  to  be  hopelessly  SANE. 

*  Dedicated  to  well  known  oil  man  of  similar  name,  a  reported 
firm  believer  in  the  witch-hazel  rod. 


LUBRICATIONS  59 


FAREWELL,  DOCTOR  BOOZE 

\¥7"E  have  all  done  well;  we  put  you  in  a  palace  fit  for  a 
King;  you  were  placed  in  the  Hall  of  Fame  in  St. 
Louis — or  was  it  the  Hall  of  Infame — your  name  there 
was  Adolphus  Busch.  We  drank  so  much  that  we  made 
your  makers  work  at  night  at  Peoria.  Your  pathway  is 
strewn  with  broken  wrecks  and  human  derelicts;  your 
meat  and  drink  are  the  souls  of  men  and  the  tears  of 
women;  you  have  been  soul  destroying,  and  you  have 
put  the  key  of  all  destruction  in  your  name,  and  now 
when  you  have  been  routed  from  your  last  trench,  and 
your  breast  has  been  torn  open,  we  dedicate  this  little 
verse  to  you,  O  Fallen  King: 

You  have  been  on  the  shelf,  distinctly  yourself, 
In  containers  that  would  fool  the  best  eye; 

Sometimes  on  your  back,  you  were  called  apple-jack, 
On  others  you  looked  like  hair  dye. 

They  have  brought  you  to  town  in  a  jug  that  was  brown, 
They  have  hauled  you  around  in  a  hearse; 

You've  been  shipped  very  often,  in  a  rough-box  and  coffin, 
And  you've  grabbed  every  cent  in  our  purse. 

From  your  very  beginning,  you've  been  chock  full  of  sin 
ning; 

You've  joined  hands  with  the  loose  fitting  gowns; 
And  eyes  that  were  dearest,  you've  made  them  the  blearest, 

Yet,  you  were  handled  real  kindly  in  towns. 

But  now,  Uncle  Sam,  who  is  somewhat  a  man 

When  he  goes  into  training  to  fight; 
Says  now  it's  my  joy  to  take  care  of  the  boy, 

And  see  that  he  stays  home  at  night. 


60 LUBRICATIONS 

So  he  says  to  the  distiller,  you're  a  mighty  good  feller, 
Like  the  bed-bug  you  live  a  mean  way; 

And  the  farmer's  good  wheat  is  for  my  people  to  eat, 
That  will  build  and  not  take  strength  away. 

So  now,  Doctor  Booze,  we'll  bid  you  adieus, 

O'er  your  grave  a  tablet  will  say: 
"I  have  broken  up  homes,  'mid  desolate  moans, 

It  was  hell,  but  I  sure  had  my  day. 

I've  enjoyed  the  great  mirth  of  poisoning  the  earth; 

How  I  grin  when  the  little  ones  cry! 
How  I've  gutted  each  life,  bathed  in  tears  of  the  wife, 

And  I  grin  as  I  wave  you  good-bye." 


TEXAS 

TT'S  a  great  big  land  'way  out  yonder, 

With  a  sky  of  azure  blue; 
Where  the  soft  big  moon  is  smiling 
On  the  sparkling  drops  of  dew. 
Where  roses  bloom  forever, 

And  the  wine-cups  nod  to  the  sun; 
Some  say  that  God  has  cursed  it, 
Others  love  its  broad  fields — 

And  I'm  one. 

I've  mucked  and  slaved  in  the  North-land, 
I've  frozen  and  toiled  in  the  West. 

I've  followed  my  dreams  in  the  East-land, 
But  I  love  your  broad  fields  the  best. 

With  your  great  big  fields  full  of  silence- 
Some  say,  'tis  a  good  land  to  shun; 

While  others  they  coo  to  and  pet  it, 
And  love  its  broad  fields, 

And  I'm  one. 


LUBRICATIONS  61 

Mountains  ?    Yes,  there's  mountains  out  yonder, 

Mountains  that  tower  so  high, 
That  the  men  there  will  bet  their  last  shekel 

That  the  clouds  have  to  sidetrack  to  get  by. 
Deserts?    Well,  I  should  say  so, 

With  mirages  reflecting  the  sun. 
There  are  some  that  never  would  trade  it 

For  another  land — 

And  I'm  one. 

It's  a  land  that  no  weakling  can  live  in, 

Unless  there's  red  blood  in  his  veins; 
Your  past  is  forgiven,  forgotten, 

If  you'll  hold  the  plow,  or  the  reins; 
At  first,  you  will  hate  it  like  blazes, 

You'll  curse  your  fool  self  'cause  you've  come, 
But  soon  you'll  be  like  all  others 

And  swear  its  the  best  land — 

'Neath  the  sun. 

Love  it?    Well,  I  should  say  so, 

Because  all  your  past  is  forgot; 
The  castles  you've  built  in  dream-land 

Have  grown  to  be  real  on  the  spot. 
Building  your  share  of  an  empire, 

Rearing  her  walls  stone  by  stone, 
In  her  spell,  she  grips  and  she  holds  you, 

God  gave  you  this  land  for  your  own. 


62  LUBRICATIONS 


REQUIEM  TO  THE  POWER  THAT  WAS 

'T'HERE  is  crepe  on  the  door  of  Congress, 

Some  hearts  are  as  heavy  as  lead, 
The  talons  that  have  throttled  progress 

Have  been  clipped,  and  the  King  is  dead. 
"The  King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King!" 
On  the  Ides  of  March  he  was  slain; 
The  "Cannon"  was  spiked  by  the  insurgent  wing 
And  they're  waiting  the  funeral  train. 

If  I  was  a  mourner  at  Joseph's  bier, 

I  would  take  my  stand  at  his  head, 
Where  I  would  be  safe  to  shed  a  tear 

With  the  assurance  that  he  was  dead. 
With  his  dying  kick  he  may  vex  us, 

It  is  safer  at  the  old  mule's  head. 
A  smash  in  the  insurgent  solar  plexus 

May  stand  what  you've  gained  on  its  head. 

"So  play  the  fife  lowly,  beat  the  drum  slowly," 

Be  sure  the  coffin-lid's  screwed  down  tight; 
This  song  we  will  sing,  it  won't  be  unholy, 

There  will  be  a  "Hot  time  somewhere  tonight." 
Satan  awaits  you,  with  hand  out  to  greet  you, 

Say,  come,  my  old  friend,  I've  waited  you  long. 
The  light  you  will  see  will  look  rather  blue, 

And  the  Imps  will  all  join  in  the  song. 


THE  INVESTIGATING  SPIRIT  OF  OUR 
CONGRESS 

Scripture :  "The  same  yesterday,  today  and  forever." 

WE'VE  called  our  dummy  Congress  to  investigate  our 
beef, 

We  have  asked  investigation  on  the  ocean's  rocky  reef; 
We  have  asked  investigation  on  the  trust  that  makes  the 

pins, 
We  will  ask  investigation  to  the  family  having  twins. 


LUBRICATIONS 


We've  investigated  cattle,  we've  investigated  fields, 
We've  investigated  cotton  crops  to  see  how  much  it  yields; 
We're  investigating  houses,  we're  investigating  rents, 
We're  investigating  dollars,  we're  investigating  cents. 
We're  investigating  forests,  we're  investigating  plants, 
We're  investigating  underwear,  we're  investigating  pants ; 
We're  investigating  boozerine,  we're  investigating  beer, 
We're     investigating    grouchiness,     we're     investigating 

cheer. 

We're  investigating  farmers,  we're  investigating  soil, 
We're  investigating  pipe  lines,  we're  investigating  oil; 
We're  investigating  bankers  to  see  why  they  are  rich, 
But  we  haven't  investigated  the  man  that's  in  the  ditch. 
We've  investigated  pulpits,  we'll  investigate  the  press, 
But  we've  not  investigated  the  man  that's  in  distress; 
We're  investigating  sober  men,  we're  investigating  drunks 
We're  investigating  satchels,  we're  investigating  trunks; 
When  we  get  thro'  investigating  the  folks  will  all  be  broke, 
So  stop  it  now,  for  heaven's  sake,  your  actions  are  a  joke. 


THANKSGIVING  THOUGHT 

T  ET  me  be  thankful  for  the  sunny  day, 

Or  in  the  evening  glow,  or  when  I  hear 
Your  footsteps  passing  on  the  way, 

Or  your  dear  voice  in  trembling  near, 
I  find  in  it  my  hope,  without  despair, 

And  every  absent  moment  know  the  need 
Of  that  bright  star  that  draws  me  to  the  lair 

Of  happiness  in  happy  greed. 
Let  me  remember  all  your  love  in  life, 

The  fragrance  of  the  rose  as  wafted  by, 
The  smile  of  welcome  from  the  wife, 

The  laugh  of  children  ringing  high; 
The  song  that's  whispered  thro'  the  trees — 

I'm  thankful,  Lord,  for  all  of  these. 


64  LUBRICATIONS 


MY  FLAG 

"V~OU  give  me  my  life  and  my  liberty, 
You  wave  o'er  the  land  of  the  free, 
You've  always  been  right,  conserving  your  might, 
And  now  it  is  checked  up  to  me. 

I  love  every  star  in  your  make-up, 

My  father's  blood  dyed  your  stripes  red; 
And  the  white  as  I  know  is  purer  than  snow, 
You've  not  waved  o'er  tyranny's  head. 

You  have  called  me  to  fight  for  your  standard 

Of  morality,  virtue  and  peace. 
It  seems  to  me  right  to  go  into  this  fight 

And  stay  until  slavery  shall  cease. 

I  will  fight  for  you  now,  my  old  glory, 

And  I'll  not  fight  like  a  paid  Prussian  slave. 

The  enemy  I'll  claw,  right  into  his  maw, 
And  I  will  follow  you  into  the  grave. 

I  care  not  where  you  will  lead  me, 

On  England's,  or  France's  sacred  soil, 

Or  Turkey  or  Russia,  Austria  or  Prussia, 
For  it's  liberty  and  you  that  I  moil. 


For  you  I  will  fight  to  the  finish, 
For  you,  death  is  terrorless  to  me; 

When  the  day's  work  is  done  and  the  victories  won, 
I  will  bring  you  unstained  'cross  the  sea. 


LUBRICATIONS  65 


JUST  TIRED 

T  AM  going  to  leave  it  all— 
A  The  friend  and  the  foe  alike; 
I  have  smashed  the  old  "dinner  pail" 

Under  my  heel  on  the  pike. 
I  am  leaving  the  hemlock  cities, 

Leaving  old  pals  of  my  toil. 
Great  heavens,  how  I've  loved  it 
From  rousting  to  boring  for  oil! 

Years  I  have  toiled  in  your  mire, 

Years  I  stood  'neath  your  beams, 
Delving  at  night  by  the  flickering  light 

For  the  "oil  paying"  sand  of  my  dreams. 
Stood  on  the  derrick's  cold  top 

When  it  staggered  like  a  drunk  from  the  strain 
Of  the  storm  that  twisted  its  girts 

And  she  whined  like  a  puppy  in  pain. 

Stood  there  and  tied  the  frozen  line 

By  the  gleam  of  the  lightning's  flash, 
When  no  voice  could  be  heard  from  below, 

No  sound  save  the  thunder's  loud  crash. 
Stood  at  the  brake  in  the  cold, 

Stood  by  you,  in  sadness  and  mirth, 
Drank  from  the  pail  the  bitter  black  Jav 

But  I  couldn't  drag  wealth  from  your  earth. 

My  hair  has  grown  gray  in  your  harness, 

How  I  love  you  God  only  can  tell; 
I  am  leaving  you  now,  and  forever 

Trying  to  get  away  from  your  spell 
That  has  twisted  and  bent  my  manhood — 

(God!  how  I've  worked  and  perspired!) 
I'm  not  quitting  because  I'm  not  game, 

But  because  I've  worked  hard  and  I'm  tired. 


66  LUBRICATIONS 


HIS  OIL  COUNTRY  SHACK 

TT  IS  shack  is  as  it  used  to  be 
-"Before  he  was  called  away; 
The  wall  is  covered  o'er  with  maps 

He  marked  from  day  to  day. 
The  pictures  of  himself  and  pals 

Are  in  their  favored  spot, 
A  picture  of  some  laughing  girls, 

No  thought  of  shell  and  shot. 

His  baseball  "mitt"  is  on  the  stand, 

His  boxing  gloves  there  too, 
That  felt  the  pressure  of  his  hand 

In  happy  days  of  youth; 
It  was  the  room  he  long  had  kept, 

When  he  was  just  a  scout, 
With  pleasant  dreams  while  he  had  slept 

But  his  country  called  him  out. 

A  picture  of  his  mother  there, 

With  the  smile  his  mother  wore, 
And  all  the  things  that  he  held  dear 

Are  treasured  as  of  yore. 
Into  the  room  this  soldier  goes 

To  bid  his  last  farewell; 
His  dreams  are  past,  and  well  he  knows 

He  must  face  the  shot  and  shell. 

He  looks  around  the  little  shack, 

While  tears  bedim  his  eyes, 
And  wonders  if  he  will  come  back 

To  Tulsa's  azure  skies. 
His  mother's  picture  seems  to  say, 

Go,  do  your  duty  well, 
I'll  watch  you  tho'  I'm  far  away 

When  you  face  the  warrior's  Hell. 


LUBRICATIONS  67 


"DER  TAG" 

IT   Is   HERE 

have  had  your  foolish  fancies, 

In  the  visions  saw  it  come; 
You  have  reared  your  sons  to  slaughter, 

Now  they  answer  to  the  drum; 
You  have  toasted  it,  you  have  boasted  it 

When  your  eyes  were  seeing  red, 
You  have  trained  the  men  to  brain  men 

And  your  fields  are  strewn  with  dead. 

You're  embracing  it,  you're  facing  it, 

Your  land  is  drenched  with  blood, 
There's  no  shaming  it,  no  damning  it, 

It's  carrying  you  on  its  flood. 
You  have  thought  of  it,  you  have  fought  for  it, 

Made  guns   with  flaming  shell; 
You  have  sighed  for  it,  you've  lied  for  it, 

Now  you've  got  its  belching  hell. 

Are  you  satisfied,  now  it's  ratified? 

What  do  mothers  say 
Who  kneel  at  night  (for  boys  who  fight) 

With  streaming  eyes  to  pray? 
Is  it  the  happy  day  with  its  hellish  pay 

That  lays  boys  'neath  the  sod? 
When  the  bugle  blows  o'er  crimson  snows, 

How  will  you  meet  your  God? 

AUTHOR'S  NOTE — The  German  officers  of  the  Army  and 
Navy  have  had  a  toast  "Der  Tag,"  "The  Day"  for  many 
years.  It  is  here,  November  1,  1914. 


68  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  DEVIL'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  THE  KAISER 

T    THOUGHT  I  knew  some  tortures, 

-•-    To  blast  the  human  soul; 

The  heart  aflame,  transparent  breast, 

Has  made  them  all  recoil. 

The  red  hot  vat  of  molten  lead, 

The  pitchfork  held  aloft 

To  pierce  the  eyeballs  of  the  damned; 

But  this  method  all  is  soft. 

Why,  Bill,  you  take  the  babies, 

The  wives  and  sweethearts  dear, 

And  mutilate  and  rape  them 

And  you  drink  their  crystal  tear; 

You  pierce  the  tear-stained  eyeballs, 

You  mutilate  the  breast 

Of  babes  and  virgin  mothers. 

At  your  methods,  Bill,  I  rest. 

You  poison  France's  ozone 

With  a  gas  more  dread  than  mine; 

Your  imps  are  found  on  every  shore 

Like  reptiles  from   the  slime; 

You've  made  me  sick  at  heart,  Bill, 

My  domain  I  will  sell; 

So  take  it,  Bill,  in  welcome, 

For  I'm  ashamed  to  run  my  hell. 

This  was  posted  in  France  during  the  war  by  some  of 
the  boys  in  Major  George  Clulow's  Sanitary  Corps. 


LUBRICATIONS  69 


1909 

TJJTHILE  strolling  along  the  highway 
*  *  On  a  crisp  December  morn, 
The  trees  looked  bleak  and  naked, 

The  earth  seemed  dead  and  worn; 
I  met  an  ancient  being 

Wending  slowly  down  the  way; 
The  face  was  bearded,  wrinkled, 

The  head  was  bald  and  gray. 

I  accosted  him  quite  cheerily, 

Whither  goest  thou  old  man? 
The  wind  is  cold  for  one  so  old, 

Have  you  no  kith  or  clan? 
Is  there  none  at  home  to  love  you, 

No  children  to  love  and  care? 
Nowhere  a  wife  to  cherish  your  life, 

Is  there  not  someone,  somewhere? 

You  know  me  well,  young  man,  quoth  he — 

I  once  was  in  my  prime; 
You  herald  with  glee  my  birth,  said  he, 

For  I'm  the  year  nineteen  hundred  nine. 
You  will  soon  welcome  nineteen  ten, 

And  will  place  to  his  lips  the  wine 
Of  hope  and  joy,  to  the  restless  boy, 

And  forget  nineteen  hundred  nine. 

I  have  come  to  the  end;   but  a  month  remains, 

Just  one  page  of  the  twelve  to  write; 
The  good,  the  bad,  the  pain,  the  joy, 

And  then  I  will  say  good  night. 
Have  you  kept  your  pages  clean  and  white, 

Or  are  they  spotted  and  blotted  with  tears? 
Is  it  an  open  book  where  all  can  look, 

Can  you  review  with  pride  the  years? 


70 LUBRICA  TIONS 

For  this  old  world  I've  done  my  best, 
No  joy  did  I  carelessly  blight; 

So  leave  me  alone,  my  trouble's  soon  done- 
To  the  young  and  the  old,  good  night. 


TO  1914 

TTURRY  up  and  get  you  gone, 
•*••*-  You're  the  worst  we  ever  saw; 
Strikes  and  wars,  since  early  dawn 

Clawing,  tearing  at  our  maw; 
What  you've  done  in  your  short  life 

Can't  be  equalled  by  any  years, 
With  your  horrors,  blood  and  strife, 

Orphans  made  and  widows'  tears. 

Nineteen  fourteen,  you've  been  bad, 

Torn  our  homes  by  wrecks  and  wars; 
Now  you're  leaving  we  are  glad, 

For  we've  had  enough  of  Mars. 
Maybe  you're  not  all  to  blame 

For  the  cruelty  of  your  days, 
Mayhap  the  rulers  are  insane 

That  drive  to  death  the  willing  slaves. 

When  behind  time's  veil  you've  passed, 

Immersed  in  blood,  in  passion  rolled, 
We'll  feel  your  sting  while  the  world  shall  last- 

That's  why  we  laugh  as  you  grow  old. 
My  God!  Old  Year,  what  a  mad  carouse, 

Wasting  hours  in  vain  dispute, 
The  harlot  war  has  been  your  spouse, 

No  year  has  borne  such  bitter  fruit. 

You've  only  got  a  few  days  more 

To  redden  pages  that  once  were  white; 

The  peaceful  happy  smile  you  wore 

Soon  was  stricken  by  frenzied  blight; 


LUBR1CA  TIONS 71 

And  yet  you  smirked  and  smiled  in  glee, 

Before  the  spot-light  of  life's  stage, 
And  crooned  your  song  in  ecstasy, 

Which  turned  too  soon  to  awful  rage. 

With  all  your  crimes  and  licensed  lust, 

Your  scattering  whirlwind,  fire  and  sword, 
That  fills  the  cup  with  crumbled  dust 

Of  that  well  meaning,  restless  horde; 
We  cannot  blame  it  all  on  you, 

For  vision's  greed  is  'filled  desire; 
You  gave  some  happiness,  it  is  true, 

To  others  hell — like  a  soul  on  fire. 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  FAT  MAN 

T'D  like  to  be  a  slender  man 
•*-  And  wear  a  starched  cravat; 
I'd  like  to  look  real  spick  and  span, 
But  gee !  I  can't,  for  I'm  too  fat. 

I'd  like  to  look  real  slick  and  clean, 

With  starched-up  collar  and  all  o'  that, 

But  when  I  do  I  feel  so  mean 
It's  like  a  poultice,  I'm  so  fat. 

I'd  like  the  girls  to  say  he's  cute, 
When  on  the  street  with  sailor  hat, 

But  they  just  turn  their  dainty  snoot, 
I'm  so  damned  hot,  I  am  so  fat. 

I  want  a  club  when  on  the  street, 
A  policeman's  mace  or  baseball  bat, 

To  kill  all  idiots  that  I  meet, 

Who  says,  "Ain't  it  fierce  for  one  so  fat?" 


72  LUBRICATIONS 


GIVE  AND  YOU  SHALL  RECEIVE 


TT^HE  picture  gives  richness  for  years  and  for  years, 
-*•  Yet  forever  its  beauty  will  shine; 
It  pleases  the  eyes,  tho'  it  fills  them  with  tears, 
But  'tis  never  affected  by  time. 

The  rose  sheds  its  fragrance  to  the  breezes  all  day. 

The  flower  it  can  never  despoil, 
'Till  the  hand  of  ripe  age  picks  its  petals  away, 

And  they  drop,  giving  life  to  the  soil. 

The  rough  marble  yields  to  the  sculptor's  hard  steel 
While  he  creates  a  child  of  his  brain; 

It  fills  the  dull  room,  in  a  sweet  mute  appeal, 
But  for  years  and  for  years  'twill  remain. 

The  heart  of  the  man  is  no  less  divine 
Than  the  picture,  the  statue  or  rose. 

Each  give  of  their  beauty,  and  thro'  ages  shine, 
So  give  —  take  your  pay  —  in  repose. 


TO  JAMES  WHITGOMB  RILEY  ON  REGEIV- 
ING  THE  DEGREE  OF  LL.  D. 

TTOW  are  you,  Doctor  Riley? 

I  trust  you're  well,  today; 
Them  Hoosier  College  fellers 

Have  added  to  your  name  they  say; 
It's  gwine  to  be  middlin'  hard  on  us, 

But  God  knows  it  ain't  a  sin 
To  have  to  call  you,  Doctor, 

'Stead  of  just  plain  Jim. 

But  say,  old  pal,  they  jist  can't  help 

Givin'  you  honorable  degrees, 
And  if  the  boys  that  knew  you 

Could  distribute  them  LL.  D.'s 


73 


They  would  take  their  golden  nuggets 

As  they  yank  'em  from  the  shock, 
And  pawn  them  with  their  jewelry, 

Put  their  household  goods  in  hock, 
To  pay  the  earthly  tribute 

To  a  character  so  fine, 
Who  wrote  in  loving  memory — 

"That  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine." 

But  if  they  place  the  alphabet 

At  the  end  of  that  ole  name, 
And  each  and  every  letter 

Comprised  a  wreath  of  fame — 
We  know  that  that  would  be  too  small, 

And  not  a  soul  would  mock 
At  the  pen  that  wrote  that  glowing  verse — 

"When  the  Fodder's  in  the  Shock." 

Jist  following  the  good  old  Scriptures 

By  conferring  laurels  on  you, 
For  in  that  good  old  book  of  ours 

It  says,  "Honor  to  whom  honor  is  due." 
So  we  uncover  our  heads  to  you 

Because  of  your  lofty  soul, 
And  love  you  for  remembering  your  youth 

When  you  wrote  "The  Swimmin'  Hole." 

In  talking  it  over  the  other  night, 

We  thought  it  powerful  kind 
That  they  show  their  appreciation 

Before  you  leave  this  world  behind. 
America  has  had  never  an  equal 

To  you,  James,  in  rhythmic  art 
In  that  inimitable  style  of  yours, 

You  get  into  nature's  heart. 
The  Hoosier  poet  has  earned  his  fame, 

But  before  he's  laid  on  the  shelf, 
We  hope  for  more  like  that  pathetic  verse, 

"Good  bye,  Jim,  Take  Keer  of  Yourself." 


74  LUBRICATIONS 


MAY  30,  1908 

pLAGE  garlands  of  sympathy  on  the  hero's  grave, 
A    Woven  in  tenderness  with  hands  that  are  old, 
But  once  were  so  shapely,  strong  and  so  brave 
That  they  blended  a  nation,  in  freedom's  mould. 

Lay  on  their  biers  the  red,  white  and  blue, 
With  its  cluster  of  stars,  pure  and  white, 

The  emblem  of  freedom,  that  waved  in  their  view 
When  the  bugler  called  them  to  fight. 

Ground  arms,  stand  with  uncovered  head, 

Fear  not  for  the  manly  tear, 
But  think  of  the  glory  of  the  death  instead, 

For  he  smiles  in  heaven  as  you  honor  him  here. 

He  sees  but  the  fragment  of  the  army  of  yore 
Thro'  mist  of  eternity,  as  the  years  onward  roll, 

He  stands  with  outstretched  hands  on  the  shore, 
To  welcome  old  comrades  at  the  call  of  the  roll. 

He  loved  the  old  flag,  my  comrades,  as  you, 

And  all  thro'  that  fratricidal  strife, 
He  was  not  found  wanting,  he  ever  was  true, 

And  to  keep  it  unsoiled,  gave  his  life. 

The  grand  army's  ranks  are  thinning  apace, 
'Tis  but  the  remains  of  the  conquering  array, 

That  passed  in  review,  with  powder  stained  face, 
After  God  gave  them  a  victorious  day. 

But  for  some  he  has  now  sounded  the  taps, 

Those  we  are  honoring  today; 
Each  year  we  will  don  the  worn  old  traps, 

'Till  we  awake  at  the  great  reveille. 


LUBRICATIONS  75 


THE  PAINTS  THAT  MOTHER  MADE 

W/"E  can  talk  of  home  and  mother,  as  through  this  life 
"      we  go, 
Of  the  rich  things  that  no  other  would  attempt  to  make 

them  so; 
How  we  used  to  rob  the  larder,  how  we  raved  about  the 

cake, 

But  we  never  even  whisper  'bout  the  pants  that  Ma  could 
make. 


All  boys  who  on  a  farm  have  lived  until  the  age  of  ten, 

Have  something  to  be  thankful  for  when  they  are  grown 
up  men; 

They  can  thank  the  Lord  for  the  Jersey  cow,  also  the 
dairy  maid 

That  twitted  us  about  our  jeans,  those  pants  that  Mother 
made. 

Mother  was  an  artist  when  it  came  to  making  pies; 

The  bread  she  made  was  lovely,  brown  and  light; 

She  could  bind  the  injured  toe,  dry  the  tear  up  in  your 

eyes, 

Teach  you  how  to  say  your  little  prayer  at  night; 
She  could  tell  you  Injun  stories  'till  she  made  you  all 

afraid — 
Give  us  back  those  happy  days,  less  the  pants  that  Mother 

made. 

I  remember  when  but  a  boy,  I  think  about  sixteen, 

A  neighbor  girl  I  longed  for,  that  was  witty,  bright  and 

keen. 
It  seems  to  be  but  yesterday  when  Mother  scrubbed  my 

neck, 
And  I  soaped  my  hair  and  brushed  it  'till  it  was  nice  and 

slick. 


76 LUBR1CA  T1ONS 

I  started  out  with  good  intent  to  win  that  country  maid, 
And  wore  the  best  clothes  that  I  had — the  pants  that 
Mother  made. 

And  when  I  looked  in  the  old  cracked  glass  that  hung 
beside  the  door, 

I  thought  how  very  well  I  looked  and  needed  nothing 
more, 

Except  to  say  that  little  speech  that  God  and  I  only  knew; 

And  I  started  whistling  from  the  house  to  see  my  lovely 
Lu. 

How  Willie  came  to  miss  the  goal  while  out  on  that  pa 
rade, 

Because  they  fit  so  blooming  tight— those  pants  that 
Mother  made. 

The  speech  was  quite  original;  I  had  worked  it  up  with 

zest; 
I  met  her,  choked  and  stammered — God  only  knew  the 

rest. 

I  tried  to  hold  her  little  hand;  I  knew  she  was  very  shy, 
I  thought  a  kiss  would  help  some,  so  at  that  I  made  a  try; 
And  in  the  wrestle  that  followed,  poor  Willie  made  a  slip, 
When,  holy  horrors !  from  the  rear  he  heard  an  awful  rip. 
His  fondest  hopes  were  blighted  as  he  sat  there  scorning 

aid, 

Those  pants  were  ripped  from  stem  to  stern — the  ones 
that  Mother  made. 

Well,  he  sat  there  sullen,  silent,  'till  the  sun  had  gone  to 

rest, 
When  he  left  his  Lulu's  presence  he  had  his  face  toward 

the  west; 
It  became  his  embarrassing  duty  to  walk  backward  out  of 

sight, 

So  with  his  back  to  the  eastward,  Willie  edged  away  that 
night; 


LUBRICATIONS  77 

He  had  lost  his  time  and  sweetmeats,  for  he'd  a  won  that 

country  maid, 
If  they    had    bravely    stood    the    strain — the  pants  that 

Mother  made. 

Ofttimes  the  slightest  accident  turns  the  tide  in  a  man's 

career. 
Had  those  pants  stood  up  staunchly,  I'd  have  won  that 

little  dear, 

Together  with  a  section  of  Illinois'  most  fertile  soil; 
And  I'd  have  been  husking  pumpkins,  'stead  of  boring 

here  for  oil. 
But  only  to  the  one  who  knew  my  speech  so  well  that 

night, 

Can  we  trust  our  future,  knowing  that  He  is  always  right. 
So  I  look  upon  it  as  my  fate  to  have  had  on  them  tight 

breeches, 
I  might  have  broken  her  young  heart,  instead  of  bursting 

stitches. 

Mothers  all  are  jewels,  loving  well  their  reckless  boys, 
Their  memory's  ever  sacred,  and  our  love  without  alloys. 
The  mistakes  she  made  in  tailoring  were  all  covered  by 

the  aid 

She  gave  when  you  tore  the  bosom  from  the  pants  that 
she  had  made. 


78  LUBRICATIONS 


BILL 

T1THY,  Bill,  it  seems  just  the  other  day 
**  That  you  came  here  with  us  to  stay; 
I  was  interested  from  the  start 
To  see  how  well  you  played  your  part. 
An'  I  always  loved  you — didn't  I,  Bill? 
Then  you  got  sick  at  the  start  of  the  hill, 
An*  I  sat  up  nights  and  worried  so 
For  fear  that  you  would  never  grow. 

Didn't  I,  Bill? 

An'  then  that  time,  Bill,  that  you  and  I 
Went  to  the  Doctor — wait,  there's  a  tear  in  my  eye- 
It  hurt  me  so  to  hear  you  cry; 
Then  you  got  boils  that  came  nigh 
Killing  you  outright,  as  sure  as  you're  born, 
And  some  of  those  nights  were  long  'till  morn; 
But  you  just  fought  it  to  the  bitter  end, 
And  bye-and-bye  you  began  to  mend. 

Didn't  you,  Bill? 

And  then  you  came  back,  fat  and  plump, 
And  Bill,  you  had  grown  to  quite  a  lump; 
And  you  smiled  and  wriggled  into  my  heart, 
Yes,  you  did,  Bill,  you're  mighty  smart. 
Do  you  know  I  was  dreaming  the  other  night, 
What  if  angels  came  all  decked  in  white, 
Say  come  with  us  where  all  is  still 
I  'woke  and  said,  "Don't  take  my  Bill !" 

Didn't  I,  Bill? 


BILL 


LUBRICATIONS  79 


IF  YOU  WERE  MINE 

TF  you  were  mine  I  would  not  care 
Mf  winter  days  were  foul  or  fair; 
I'd  work  thro'  summer's  scorching  sun, 
Thro'  autumn  rains,  or  mud,  or  slime — 

If 

you 
were 

mine. 

If  you  were  mine  you'd  be  my  queen, 
An  angel  from  the  world  unseen; 
Your  lightest  wish  would  be  my  will 
Thro'  cloudy  days  the  sun  would  shine — 

If 

you 
were 

mine. 

If  you  were  mine  the  birds  would  sing 
With  sweetest  song  the  forest  ring; 
The  sparkling  stream  would  laugh  and  play 
Their  soothing  words  in  rhyme — 

If 

you 
were 

mine. 

If  you  were  mine  this  Christmas  night, 
My  dreams  are  true,  I  see  the  light 
Of  Bethlehem's  star,  a  child  is  given; 
The  welkin  rings  through  every  clime 
You're  not  just  here — 

But 
you 

are 

mine. 


80  LUBRICATIONS 


THE  GIRL  IN  DIXIE 

T\OWN  in  the  land  of  Dixie  where  the  cotton  blooms 

-*-'        and  blows, 

Where  the  sun  is  bright  and  gleaming,  and  the  crystal 

rivers  flow; 
Where  the  maids  are  bright  and  pretty,  with  teeth  of 

sparkling  pearl, 

With  hair  of  raven  luster,  dreamy  eyes  beneath  the  curl; 
The  nose  a  Grecian  profile,  a  ruby  shapely  mouth — 
She  is  the  handsome  child  of  Dixie,  a  native  of  the  South. 

In  her  dreamy  eyes  so  liquid,  I  have  tried  to  read  my  fate 
When  the  evening  sun  was  setting,  or  when  the  hour  was 

growing  late. 
I  have  painted  her  a  picture,  of  the  home  with  joy  and 

bliss, 
I  would  barter  all  my  birthright  for  the  joy  of  one  sweet 

kiss; 
For  a  drink  of  luscious  nectar  from  her  coral  shapely 

mouth, 
I  would  eat  the  blazing  sunshine  that  smiles  down  in  the 

South. 

I  would  eat  the  blazen  sunshine,  I  would  dive  in  Hell's 

abyss, 
I  would  drain  the  mighty  ocean  if  commanded  by  that 

Miss; 

I  would  sigh,  I  would  cry,  I  would  drink  Red  River  dry- 
But  not  for  her  or  any  other  woman  would  I  go  off  and 

die. 


LUBRICATIONS  81 


MEMORIES  OF  VALENTINE 


time  I  wrote  a  tender  line  — 
A  tender  line. 
I  wrote  it  to  a  maiden  fair 
With  tender  eyes  and  woozy  hair; 
She  was  my  Valentine, 
My  Valentine. 

Her  father  he  was  old  and  mean, 

No   tenderloin. 

And  when  he  saw  the  line  I  wrote, 
He  said,  "Your  hip  and  thigh  I'll  smote;" 
And  then  he  entered  on  the  scene, 

0,  tender-loin. 

He  grabbed  me  where  my  collar  slantz, 

The  ugly  brute. 

He  tried  to  poke  my  black  eyes  out, 
He  wrung  my  neck,  turned  me  about 
And  kicked  me  in  the  pantz 

With  heavy  fute   (foot). 

Years  have  gone  since  that  tender  line  — 

O,  tenderloin! 

That  foot  it  quenched  the  burning  fire, 
And  since  that  time  I've  no  desire 
To  write  a  tender  line,  my  Valentine, 

Sweet  Valentine. 


82  LUBRICATIONS 


WHEN  MOTHER'S  GONE 

THE  floors  are  covered  o'er  with  dust, 
The  stove  is  getting  red  with  rust, 
The  dog  he  howls  the  livelong  day, 
Since  Mother's  gone  away. 

The  dust  is  thick  upon  my  chair, 
There's  cobwebs  sticking  in  my  hair; 
The  blooming  hens  have  ceased  to  lay 
Since  Mother's  gone  away. 

The  grass  has  grown  long  and  dry, 
The  old  hens  cackle,  but  they  lie; 
The  ice  man  cheats  me  every  day 
Since  Mother's  gone  away. 

There  is  trouble  here,  to  make  me  drink, 
With  scrubbing  floors,  and  rugs,  and  sink; 
I  stepped  upon  a  tack  today, 
It  hurt  me  worse  since  Ma's  away. 

No  man  can  ever  live  alone, 
When  Mother's  gone  he  gnaws  a  bone; 
His  bare  feet  trod  thro'  sand  and  clay 
When  Mother's  gone  away. 

Come  back,  come  back  from  'way  up  North, 
We  miss  you,  girl,  we  know  your  worth; 
We'll  drudge  and  toil  the  livelong  day, 
If  you'll  please  hurry  home  to  stay. 


LUBRICATIONS  83 


AT  FIFTY-FIVE 

A    BROKEN  and  battered  old  derelict 

-^*-     On  the  out-going  tide  afloat, 
Abandoned  by  youth  in  the  conflict, 

A  rudderless,  aimless  old  boat; 
Beaten  by  seas  of  merciless  time, 

The  hand  is  old  at  the  wheel; 
The  eye  cannot  the  shoals  define 

That  youth  instinctively  feel. 

At  fifty-five  the  dream  is  o'er, 

It  is  now  the  gray  of  Fall; 
God  held  out  to  you  his  bountiful  store, 

But  it  is  now  beyond  recall. 
The  rose  has  exuded  its  fragrance  to  you 

The  petals  have  dropped  by  the  way, 
The  sunshine,  the  rain,  the  tremulous  dew 

Cannot  prolong  its  sweet  life  one  day. 

The  youthful  brook  with  babbling  song 

Has  swelled  the  river's  breast, 
And  now  majestically  swings  along 

To  mingle  with  the  ocean's  crest. 
The  fuels  consumed  by  time's  cruel  hand, 

The  heart  has  no  rhythmic  tone; 
You're  only  a  derelict,  pathetic  or  grand, 

As  you  come,  so  you  go,  all  alone. 


84  LUBRICATIONS 


A  WARNING  TO  COLORED  BROTHERS 

comet  am  a-comin',  you  niggers  mus'  look  out — 
It's  gwine  to  bus'  dis  worF  in  two  and  put  de  lights 

all  out; 
De  passon  ob  de  colored  church  say  de  sun  will  sure 

stan'  still, 

Den  you  chilly  blooded  niggers  will  get  heated  'til  you  fill; 
De  odder  night  I  hearn  it  roar  jes'  like  a  water  spout, 
Dat  comet's  gwine  to  git  ye,  'f  yo'  don'  watch  out. 

So  Brudder  George  and  Brudder  Bill,  you'd  better  jine  de 

church ; 

And  Sister  Sal  and  Sister  Sue  don'  be  left  in  de  lurch; 
An'  Deacon  Sam  de  time  have  cum  to  put  dat  rooster  in 
White  Man  Henry's  chicken-coops,  for  stealin'  am  a  sin; 
An'  loosen  up  your  old  stiff  j'ints  and  pray  and  sing  and 

shout — 

For  de  comet's  gwine  to  get  you  ef  you  don'  watch  out. 
An'  Brudder  Eaf,  de  Lawd  done  seen  yo'  shootin'  craps 

las'  night, 
An'  saw  you  flip  de  dice  by  hand — you  know  dat  dat's  not 

right; 
An'  Sister  Sue,  de  Lawd  done  saw  you  swipe  dat  bolt  of 

lace 
An'  put  it  'neath  yo'r  apron  when  the  clerk  done  turned 

his  face; 

He  sees  it  on  yo'r  petty-coat  when  you  go  gaddin'  'bout— 
And  the  comet's  gwine  to  get  you  ef  you  don'  watch  out. 
Yo'  men  folks  been  a  singin'  "Will  dere  be  stars  in  my 

crown  ?" 

An'  thinkin'  of  a  yaller  gal  dat  lives  jes'  out  en  town; 
An'  you,  Amanda  Melia  Brown,  dat  in  our  choir  sings, 
Ye'd  better  put  yo'r  mind  on  Gawd,  'stead  of  hats  an' 

things ; 

For  de  comet  am  a-comin',  yo'll  hear  St.  Peter  shout — 
Dat  comet's  gwine  to  git  ye,  ef  yo'  don'  watch  out. 


LUBRICATIONS  85 


WHO'S  TO  BLAME 

T  ED  from  the  path  of  virtue, 

-^  When  the  shadows  had  grown  long, 

Down  where  the  cardinal  lights  gleam, 

Down  'mid  the  ribald's  song; 
Petted  by  saucy  harlots 

Who  looked  with  drink-crazed  eyes 
Into  the  chasm,  eternity, 

Away  from  the  smiling  skies. 

Into  that  chamber  of  horrors, 

Thro'  its  vile-smelling  stench 
Of  unclean  and  blood-smelling  women, 

The  waiter  a  vile-smelling  wench; 
Saw  we  all  this  in  one  evening, 

While  the  moon  hid  her  face  in  her  shame, 
Tell  me,  old  man,  where's  the  pleasure 

To  the  man  who  claims  he  is  sane. 

Who  is  to  blame  for  the  brothel — 

Where  shall  we  fasten  the  crime? 
Just  look  in  your  heart,  old  fellow, 

Yours  and  others,  and  mine; 
It's  our  palace  of  Hell — don't  forget  it — 

The  reaper  reaps  just  what  he  sows; 
Posterity  may  still  be  in  dream-land, 

Recruits  from  our  own  home.   "Who  knows?" 


86  LUBRICATIONS 


GOING  HOME 

CAY,  did  you  ever  start  for  home 
^  At  the  pull  of  the  old  heartstring, 
To  see  the  paths  where  you  used  to  roam 

And  drink  from  the  old  rock  spring? 
The  train  that  bore  you  homeward 

Seemed  to  creep  'long  like  a  snail, 
The  click  of  the  wheels  singing  onward 

As  they  jumped  the  splice  in  the  rail; 
And  you  came  in  sight  of  Bear  Creek, 

Where  you've  sat  and  fished  and  fished, 
And  in  your  boyhood  fancies, 

You  have  dreamed,  and  wished,  and  wished. 
That  the  fairy  that  you've  read  about 

Would  come  with  his  team  of  greys, 
And  carry  you  off  to  fairyland, 

A  prince  to  end  your  days. 
And  when  your  journey's  ended 

And  the  train  is  standing  still, 
No  old  friends  there  to  meet  you 

And  your  eyes  begin  to  fill 
At  the  absence  of  some  friendly  face, 

At  the  town  so  old  and  worn, 
That  you  ask  yourself  the  question- 
Is  this  where  I  was  born? 
Well,  you've  dreamed  your  dreams 

And  the  picture  don't  bring  joy, 
The  things  that  you  are  seeing 

Are  not  seen  with  the  eyes  of  a  boy. 
But,  O  kind  God,  how  my  heart  ached 

When  I  stood  before  the  door, 
To  be  met  with  the  face  of  a  stranger 

That  I'd  never  seen  before; 
I  leave  the  old  home  with  its  memories 

And  go  to  the  old  church  lot, 
Reading  these  lines  on  the  marble: 

"Gone,  but  not  forgot." 


LUBRICATIONS  87 


TWAIN  IS  DEAD 

On  the  Death  of  Mark  Twain  (Samuel  L.  Clemens) 

HPHE  bells  have  tolled — his  sun  has  set; 
•*-    The  line  of  friends  is  passing  by 
With  leaden  tread  of  funeral  step; 

The  wind  is  whispering  a  lonely  sigh 
For  poor,  for  rich,  the  great,  the  small — 

The  nation  stands  with  lowered  head, 
And  says  he's  gone  beyond  recall, 

His  name  revered,  tho'  Twain  is  dead. 

He  loved  the  world — the  world  loved  him — 

He  made  it  laugh  with  joyous  mirth; 
In  man  he  ne'er  condemned  the  sin 

To  him  inherent  from  his  birth; 
But  when  he  plied  his  witching  pen 

Flowers  bloomed  o'er  the  invalid  bed, 
They  forget  their  pain  and  again  were  men — 

What's  left  for  them  since  Twain  is  dead? 

Gone  where  angels  always  sing, 

He'll  find  a  harp  that's  tuned  aright, 
And  to  those  airy  visions  bring 

A  spirit  just  as  pure  and  white; 
'Mid  angel's  song  he'll  find  a  place 

With  jeweled  crown  upon  his  head, 
The  same  sweet  smile  upon  his  face — 

He  lives  forever,  though  Twain  is  dead. 


88  LUBRICATIONS 


THANKSGIVING 

roar  of  a  war  is  in  our  ears, 
And  our  hearts  are  sad  within. 
Have  we  purchased  our  peace  with  craven  fears? 
If  so,  it's  the  unpardonable  sin. 

Can  WE  thank  God,  the  bloody  strife 

Is  across  the  rolling  wave? 
And  shirk  a  duty  dearer  than  life 

And  thank  God  for  the  gold  we  save? 


FRIENDSHIP 

TF  you  should  ask  of  any  teacher — 
-"-What  is  best  of  all  the  treasures? 
How  of  good  things  get  your  measures 
Filled  to  full  and  overflowing; 
If  you  ask  him,  he  will  tell  you: 
Not  from  drink,  and  wine  get  pleasures. 
Not  from  gold,  or  silk,  or  satin, 
Not  from  Greek,  or  French,  or  Latin; 
But  from  friendship  pure  and  holy, 
From  a  tree  with  life's  fruit  ripened, 
Branches  of  fine  men  and  women. 
He  would  tell  you  without  stipend 
How  God  made  in  his  own  image 
Men,  and  women  loyal,  loyal; 
Left  it  not  to  families  royal, 
But  to  all  his  lovely  creatures, 
Kind  of  heart  and  sweet  of  features; 
Made  he  all  the  men  and  women 
With  a  hallowed  brow  of  light, 
This  the  toast  that  now  I  greet  you, 
To  renew  the  bond  of  friendship, 
Faithful  as  the  stars  of  night. 


LUBRICATIONS  89 


GANANDAIGUA  IN  A  FRENZY 

"YTOU  do  not  laugh  and  sing  and  play 
-*-  With  lips  serene  as  yesterday; 
Instead,  your  screaming  white-caps  yell, 
Like  a  human  soul  in  the  depths  of  Hell. 
Are  you  jealous  of  the  drops  of  rain 
That  nourish  the  rose  on  the  sun-baked  plain, 
Or  are  you  scared  at  the  lightning's  flash, 
Are  you  hysterical  at  the  thunder's  crash? 
For  shame,  for  shame,  on  you,  sweet  lake: 
To  all  your  beauty  and  rhythm  forsake. 
And  stick  out  your  tongue  like  a  naughty  kid 
Because  "Old  Jove"  pulls  off  the  lid. 
Come  back  and  sing  your  sweetest  lay, 
I  like  you  better  as  yesterday. 


WHY  NOT? 

/~\NCE  I  was  a  happy  fellow, 
^In  gladsome  spring  or  autumn  yellow- 
Hunting  for  some  good  in  man, 
Something  after  God's  own  plan; 
Picked  up  Tom,  who  seemed  so  fine, 
Thought  I'd  found  a  man  divine; 
But  beneath  his  velvet  hide, 
Was  something  that  his  face  denied. 
In  his  image  God  had  made 
That  was  all  his  stock  and  trade; 
When  I  saw  the  life  within, 
Twas  a  seething  mass  of  sin. 
Then  I  tried  George,  Dick  and  Dan 
For  an  honest  Godly  man; 
In  each  case  was  faults,  I  found; 
Some  apparent,  some  profound; 
And  I  thought  why  prick  a  bubble, 


90 LUBRICATIONS 

Why  hunt  disappointments,  trouble? 
For  in  every  man  I  meet, 
And  in  women  on  the  street, 
I  find  something  good  and  clean, 
Then  why  pick  out  that  which  is  mean? 

Then  I  ceased  to  look  within; 
Looked  for  truth  instead  of  sin; 
Was  surprised  the  pure  in  mind— 
NEVER  will  I  look  behind. 


WHEN  I  AM  FIFTY  AND  YOU  ARE  FIVE 

TY7HEN  I  am  fifty,  and  you  are  five, 

"    And  the  world  to  you  is  bright; 

As  the  morning  sun  unveils  the  east 

And  pushes  back  the  night; 
And  birds  sing  blithely — and  flowers  bloom 

'Till  the  air  with  perfume's  rife, 
And  your  golden  hair  has  no  line  of  care— 

For  I  am  fifty — and  you  are  five. 

When  I  am  fifty,  and  you  are  five, 

And  you  have  never  a  care; 
While  I  see  trees  with  their  yellow  leaves 

Standing  bleak  and  bare; 
The  spring  of  youth  is  beyond  recall, 

It  is  parched  and  blackened  by  strife, 
And  the  "Night-birds"  call— to  me  'tis  fall— 

For  I  am  fifty — while  you  are  five. 

When  I  am  fifty,  and  you  are  five, 
With  you  life's  journey's  begun, 

The  rose  strewn  path  of  youth  is  yours, 
While  my  life's  journey's  done. 

May  the  darkest  night  show  a  ray  of  light 
That  will  brighten  your  path  of  life, 

And  zephyrs  croon,  to  a  life  in  bloom- 
When  you  are  fifty  and  five. 


LUBRICATIONS  91 


THAT  PRE-NUPTIAL  TIN  SHOWER 

TTOW  dear  to  your  heart  is  this,  your  "tin  shower," 
•*--•-   When  the  "stew-pans"  are  "stewed"  and  the  buckets 

turn  pail; 

While  the  din  in  the  house  is  like  the  clang  of  a  power, 
Or  a  dog  racing  by  with  some  "cans"  on  his  tail. 

The  tinware  I  hand  you  is  bright  and  full  measure 
When  filled  with  the  happiness  drawn  from  life's  spring. 
May  you  look  at  this  bucket  as  full  of  sweet  pleasures, 
And  "can"  all  the  strife  with  the  songs  that  you  sing. 


VIOLETS 

'T'HE  buds  I  send  are  from  a  friend, 
-*-    They  match  your  eyes  of  blue, 
They  carry  joy  from  your  dear  old  boy 
Because  he's  found  you  true. 

Their  lingering  perfume  gladdens  your  room 
When  the  petals  are  withered  and  gray; 

Yet  the  message  they  bring  is  a  voice  of  spring 
And  birds  sing  their  roundelay. 

I  plucked  them  while  here,  for  you,  my  Dear, 
They'll  be  crushed,  when  they  come,  out  flat, 

But  the  love  they  bring  in  life's  the  thing, 
From  a  guy  you  know  that  is  fat. 


92  LUBRICATIONS 


WOULDNT  THIS  BE  A  DREAM? 

TF  the  sun  was  always  smiling, 

Floating  down  life's  turbid  stream, 

Filled  with  scented  hours  beguiling — 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  dream? 


If  your  friends  were  all  in  harmony, 
And  the  milk  of  kindness  cream, 

And  life  would  have  no  irony— 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  dream? 

When  you  wouldn't  need  a  backbone, 
Nor  a  safe  your  gold  to  screen; 

The  judge  would  burn  his  Blackstone — 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  dream? 

And  your  banker  greets  you  smiling, 
Renews  the  old  note  calm,  serene, 

With  nary  a  curse  reviling — 
That  sure  would  be  a  dream. 

If  politics  were  played  near  square, 
Where  the  deck  is  plainly  seen, 

And  keep  the  promise  given  fair — 
Wow!  that  would  be  a  dream. 

Some  happy  days  of  life  are  spent 

In  building  castles  fair; 
In  youth  our  dreams  are  pleasure  bent, 

Like  bubble  filled  with  air. 

In  middle  life  we've  drunk  the  gall, 
The  fruit,  the  wine,  the  cream, 

But  the  yellow  days  are  best  of  all- 
life's  sunsets  evening  dream. 


LUBRICATIONS  93 


THE  HOME  ON  THE  RIVER  HILL 

TTOW   I  have   dreamed   and  dreamed   to   possess  my 

-^--*-   father's  estate, 

When  the  evening  twilight  is  fading,  and  the  day  is  grow 
ing  late ! 

How  I  have  conjured  in  my  memory  the  scenes  of  rock 
and  rill 

And  a  mirage  passes  before  me — of  the  home  on  the  river 
and  hill. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it,  with  a  love  that's  ever  true, 

From  its  tangled  wooded  pathway  to  the  starry  dome 

of  blue, 
Where  the  cricket  chirps  at  the  window  when  all  but  he 

is  still, 
And  mother's  evening  song  is  heard  at  the  home  on  river 

hill! 

The  stranger  sees  no  beauty  that  lived  on  that  hallowed 

spot, 
Yet  the  picture  I  see  in  life's  evening,  is  by  a  Master 

wrought. 

At  the  faces  painted  on  memory's  tile  my  eyes  begin  to  fill 
There  is  one  of  the  dear  old  Mother — at  the  home  on  the 
river  hill. 

God  took  pains  in  designing,  builded  it  rugged  and  grand, 
Colors  that  blend,  Oh!  Divinely,  painted  by  the  Infinite 

hand; 
I've  traveled  along  the  great  white  way — drank  from  the 

hidden  still, 
But  I'm  going  back  to  the  home,  sweet  home — that  home 

on  the  river  hill. 


94  LUBRICATIONS 


FATHER'S  GOT  A  JOB 

1VTO  more  he'll  cook  delicious  cakes 

-*- Mn  the  late  or  early  morn; 

No  more  he'll  sleep,  'til  the  sun  awakes 

With  its  golden  beams  so  warm; 
No  more  he'll  pose  as  a  wealthy  guy, 

No  more  poor  farmers  rob; 
Up  with  the  sun,  will  be  his  cry, 

For  father's  got  a  job. 

It's  been  so  long  that  he  forgets 

When  last  he  had  a  place, 
It  seemed  he'd  join  the  never-sweats 

And  loafed  around  with  grace; 
No  more  he'll  join  the  kids  at  play 

Or  leave  home  with  a  sob; 
No  more  at  home  he'll  be  a  jay, 

For  father's  got  a  job. 

His  daughter  now  at  school  can  say 

With  sincere  and  girlish  laughter, 
My  father  toils  from  day  to  day, 

Has  ceased  to  be  a  grafter. 
He'll  now  come  home,  cross  like  a  bear, 

From  playing  with  a  snob; 
The  house  will  all  be  hushed  with  fear, 

Since  father's  got  a  job. 


LUBRICATIONS  95 


SPRING  TROUBLES 

TVTHEN  the  springtime  skies  are  bluest, 
**   And  maidens'  hearts  are  truest, 
And  the  birds  are  mating,  singing  all  the  while; 

When  trees  are  blooming  their  bloomest 
And  daylight  comes  the  soonest — 
It's  April,  take  your  fishing  pole  and  smile. 

When  wifey's  temper's  the  meanest  (This  don't  go  if 
she  hears  it) — 

And  she  cleans  the  house  the  cleanest, 
Then  she  makes  you  beat  the  dusty  microbe  rugs; 

When  you  climb  the  ladder  highest 
You  stand  like  a  highdivest, 
You  are  cleaning  out  the  microscopic  bugs. 

When  your  lyre  is  the  lyrest. 

And  your  troubles  are  the  direst, 
And  you're  falling  over  chairs  that's  in  the  way, 

And  you  trip  and  fall  the  fallingest, 
With  language  that's  appallingest, 
Then  you  want  to  kick  sweet  April  into  May. 

When  your  meals  are  always  coldest, 

And  your  wife  looks  years  the  oldest, 
And  the  beds  all  look  like  scrapheaps,  by  ging! 

You  long  for  day's  completest, 
When  wifey  smiles  the  sweetest, 
Before  housecleaning  days  in  early  spring. 


96  LUBRICATIONS 


HALLOWE'EN 

is  the  night  when  Fairies  light 
And  gnomes  and  brownies  dance, 
In  yellow  days — their  splendors  blaze- 
While  their  spritely  ponies  prance; 
The  moon  is  hid — as  if  a  lid 

Concealed  her  pallid  beam, 
For  turnip  night  and  jack-o-light — 
For  this  is  Hallowe'en. 


Along  Kanawha's  winding  banks, 

'Mid  tanglewood  and  dell, 
The  sprite  that  rules  the  marshal  ranks 

And  o'er  us  casts  his  spell — 
Shows  us  the  place  where  lover's  face 

Is  mirrored  in  the  stream, 
The  face  of  sweetheart  there  is  traced — 

If  wished  on  Hallowe'en. 

This  is  the  night  when  jack-o-light 

Casts  lurid  flickering  flame; 
When  chestnuts  ripe  are  baked  aright 

And  each  is  given  name; 
With  its  noisy  pops,  the  chestnut  hops 

At  your  future  spouse,  I  ween, 
With  blushes  red  and  lowered  head — 

You  are  pledged  on  Hallowe'en. 


LADDIE 


LUBRICATIONS  97 


LADDIE 

T  AD  is  dead?    Well,  well,  that's  a  sin, 
-^  The  best  friend  man  ever  had; 
He  always  looked  for  what's  within, 

Tho'  clothes  were  ragged,  torn  and  bad; 
Lad  really  did  not  have  a  care 
Of  how  his  friends  would  part  their  hair. 

Once  I  heard  him  bark  with  glee 

And  run,  and  yelp,  and  jump  with  joy; 

And  one  would  wonder  how  that  he 
Would  love  that  ragged,  dirty  boy. 

But  Lad  just  looked  at  the  heart  within 

And  that  was  what  Lad  liked  in  him. 

Lad  was  just  an  ornery,  curly  cur, 

A  mongrel  dog,  not  of  the  royal  brood; 

Yet  on  his  loyalty  there  never  was  a  slur, 
For  thro'  the  ages  past  was  honest  blood. 

Lad  was  just  a  mangy  hybrid,  it  is  true, 

But  can  Lad's  faithful  acts  be  said  of  you? 

Lad  won  no  ribbon  at  a  canine  show, 

He  never  won  a  bloody  fight; 
He  was  part  and  parcel  of  all  the  dogs  you  know, 

But  'neath  his  flea-bit  hide  his  heart  was  right. 
There  may  be  some  advantages  in  one's  birth, 
But  nothing  better  than  Lad's  on  earth. 

And  when  Lad  came  to  take  the  step, 

He  never  thought  of  boys  who  canned  his  tail, 

But  shivering  at  the  door  he'd  yelp, 

When  opened,  whine  his  mournful  tale. 

And  somehow  thro'  that  veil  and  fog 

He'll  find  the  heaven  for  an  honest  dog. 


LUBRICA  T1ONS 


SPRING 

HPHE  wind  has  been  in  the  South  for  a  couple  of  days. 
•*-  It  is  mellowed  by  the  sunshine  and  my  old  body  is 
being  warmed  by  its  breath.  The  sweet-voiced  songsters 
are  beginning  to  carol  from  a  winter  of  silence,  and  the 
bright,  beautiful  laughing  child  of  Spring  with  her  fra 
grance,  her  variegation  in  coloring,  is  here  again,  to  love 
and  enjoy.  The  Muse  whispers  to  the  receptive  ear: 

O  gentle,  soothing,  balmy  spring, 

A  million  tongues  your  praises  sing; 

'Mid  bursting  buds  the  blue  birds  flit, 

And  calves  are  peeping  through  the  slit 

Of  Paris  gowns,  neath  silken  hose; 

The  neck  is  bare  where  the  wish-bone  grows, 

And  if  there  is  no  other  thing 

These  signs  would  indicate  it's  Spring. 


OUR  DAY  DREAMS 

TN  the  sanctity  of  our  little  home, 
-•-     Away  from  the  toil  and  strife; 
Our  day  dreams  come  when  we  are  alone. 
They're  the  happiest  moments  of  life. 

The  dreams  we  have  twixt  downy  sheets 
May  be  hazy,  or  lurid,  or  wild; 

Our  battles  are  fought,  we  feel  defeat, 

Our  day  dreams  are  soothing  and  mild. 

No  holocaust  we  see  or  business  care, 

No  falls  down,  down  below; 
No  maniac  roams  with  disheveled  hair 

In  our  day  dreams  while  the  zephyrs  blow. 


LUBRICATIONS  99 

The  pictures  we  draw  in  fancy  there, 

The  castles  we  build  will  stand; 
The  fragrance  we  breathe  of  flowers  rare 

Are  nurtured  by  fancy's  hand. 

The  old  easy  chair,  the  grim  pictured  wall 
Where  in  day  dreams  we  often  trace, 

The  name  of  loved  ones  that  answered  the  call, 
And  our  fancy  takes  shape  of  a  face. 

Tho'  time  has  traced  his  lines  in  her  hair, 
The  sweet  old  face  that  love  imparts; 

You  start  when  you  find  her  standing  there, 
The  best  the  bravest  of  all  sweethearts. 


ALL  HIS  LABORS  ARE  VAIN 

I  AM  the  man  that  wrote  the  song 
On  "Kitty's  wooden  leg"; 
Twas  I  that  made  the  "Goose" 
That  laid  the  "golden  egg." 

I'm  the  man  that  trained  the  Giants 

In  all  points  of  the  game 
That  put  them  on  the  highest  round 

Of  baseball's  ladder  of  fame. 

It  was  I  that  invented  the  auto, 

Also  the  pneumatic  brake 
That  will  stop  a  car  in  thirty  feet, 

Unless  there's  a  life  at  stake. 

'Twas  I  that  made  old  Morgan  rich 

By  not  following  my  advice; 
I  started  the  panic  of  last  November 

Betting  on  loaded  dice. 


100 LUBRICA  TIONS 

I  wrote  all  Hardnig's  special  messages 

He  sent  to  Congress  this  year; 
But  my  brain  factory  was  on  the  bumsky 

When  I  made  the  brains  that  were  there. 

I  snatched  electricity  from  the  blue  realm, 

Broke  it  to  drive  and  ride; 
I  made  the  machine  to  register  the  fare, 

But  the  conductor's  hands  are  all  tied. 

I  invented  the  mill  for  distilling  the  juice 

Of  Eden's  forbidden  fruit 
That  made  Mother  Eve  make  dresses; 

I  designed  the  Merry  Widow  so  cute. 

It  is  true  that  I  am  an  author  of  note, 
Of  rhymes  and  philosophical  freaks, 

But  by  the  long  beard  of  the  prophet  of  old, 
I  deny  writing  that  story  "Three  Weeks." 

You  will  see  by  the  above  that  I'm  a  wonderful  man 
In  physics  and  with  my  versatile  pen, 

But  I  doff  my  lid  to  that  inventive  mind 

That  has  designed  the  double-barrelled  hen. 

MORAL — It  is  better  to  accomplish  one  great  act  in 
life  than  to  attempt  a  score. 


TO  OUR  GOOD  FRIEND  $$$$ 

TTAVE  you  read  about  the  microbes 
n    That  infest  the  dollar  bill? 
Ninety  million  so  they  say 

On  each  bill  in  the  till; 
Since  reading  all  about  it — 

And  disease  don't  seem  remote— 
I've  decided  to  drop  Friend  William, 

And  use  a  nice  clean  note, 


LUBRICATIONS 101 

You  can  get  easy  at  any  bank 

So  new  and  clean  and  white, 
But  the  ones  that  drive  me  crazy 

Are  the  ones  that  are  written  "at  sight." 
So  what's  the  use  to  worry 

About  the  insects  that's  on  Bill? 
When  a  feller  never  has  one 

His  simple  wants  to  fill. 
But  I  have  always  noticed 

That  the  man  with  the  largest  wad 
Is  usually  among  the  last  ones 

To  be  called  to  meet  his  God. 
So  the  Doctor  better  come  again, 

Or  stick  to  his  box  of  pills, 
For  they're  indeed,  a  friend  in  need, 

Those  dirty,  microbic  bills. 


THE  OLD  BUCKET  SHOP 

TT  OW  dear  to  their  hearts  is  the  wire  they  attended, 
-*--*•  When  the  blooming  old  world  took  a  rose  tinted  view; 
How  we  squirmed  and  we  kicked  at  the  pin  that  they 

bended 
That  broke  us  in  purse,  when  we  left  the  office  quite 

blue. 

The  face  they  recall  of  the  small  "Tin-Horn  Gambler" 
As  he  dragged  from  his  pockets  the  shekels  so  new, 
They  turned  him  loose  sad,  yet  a  homeless  wanderer, 
The  thieving  old  bucket  shop,  the  crooked  old  bucket 

shop, 

The   entrancing  old  bucket  shop   that  we   all  have 
known. 

How  well  I  remember,  I  think  last  September, 
I  thought  I  would  take  just  one  little  flight; 

I  bought  of  June  wheat — they  called  it  September — 
But  what  the  man  did  to  me  was  simply  a  fright. 


102 LUBRICATIONS 

I  hear  them  reviling,  while  I  sit  a-smiling 

At  poor  Uncle  Sam  with  his  coat  off  to  fight; 

The  jury's  been  stung  by  the  shop's  smooth  conniving 
And  are  ready  to  give  them  one  long  endless  night. 

The  crooked  old  bucket  shop,  the  skin  game  bucket  shop, 
The  bucket  shop  that  gets  you  and  deprives  you  of 
home. 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE  TONIGHT 

TF  I  should  die  tonight, 

•*•  And  one  would  come  to  my  cold  and  lifeless  clay, 

Take  my  clammy,  stiffening  hands,  and  say, 

"Bill,  you  have  fought  our  battles  well," 

I'd  rise  up,  and  in  my  wrath  I'd  say,  "Oh,  go  to  hell!" 

If  I  should  die  tonight, 

And  some  supineless  creature'd  come 

With  flowers  for  the  good  I'd  done, 

I'd  push  right  up  that  coffin  lid 

And  ask  him  frankly  what  he  did 

While  I  was  here  to  fan  the  flame 

Of  work  worth  while;  then  drop  dead  again. 

If  I  should  die  tonight, 

And  take  the  steps  to  an  unknown  land, 

And  one  would  come  and  clasp  my  hand 

And  say:  "Poor  old  Bill,  he's  with  the  blest; 

We  pray  for  calm,  eternal  rest." 

I'd  point  my  finger  in  his  face  and  say: 

"What  did  you  do  to  smooth  the  way 

Through  a  life  of  grief,  of  tears,  of  pain?" 

I'd  tell  him  what  a  chump  he'd  been, 

And  then  drop  dead  again. 


LUBRICATIONS  103 


DEM  GUYS  NEXT  DOOR 

HP  HERE'S  a  pigeon  on  my  awning, 
•*-  There's  some  sparrows  on  my  sill, 
The  pigeon's  busy  cooing 

While  the  youngster  sucks  his  bill; 
But  I  never  mind  the  sparrow 

Or  the  pigeon  any  more; 
But  it  digs  into  my  marrow 

At  the  guys  that  sit  next  door. 

When  my  work  progresses  fairly 

At  the  closing  of  the  day 
I  hear  them  say,  deal  squarely, 

How  much  will  it  cost  to  stay? 
Come  on,  old  sport,  put  in  your  dough, 

Don't  let  'em  make  you  sore, 
A  pair  of  ladies,  don't  you  know, 

I  hear  from  my  next  door. 

And  then  it's  quiet  for  a  spell, 

Just  riffling,  shuffling  sound, 
Then  somebody  says,  "O,  hell," 

Go  deal  those  cards  around. 
I  hold  four  kings  and  a  little  ace, 

That  makes  an  awful  roar." 
And  what  is  said  is  out  of  place 

From  the  guys  that  are  next  door. 


WHEN  THE  ICE  IS  IN  THE  RYE 

TV7HEN  the  cold  winds  blow  a  hurricane  across  the 
northern  coast, 

An'  you  stir  the  blooming  fire  just  to  give  your  shins  a 
roast; 

An'  you  drink  a  quart  of  bitter  dope  to  cure  that  hack 
ing  cough, 


104 LUBRICATIONS 

An'  you  drink  your  Tom  and  Jerrys  with  your  pedals  in 

the  trough, 
It  is  then  you  think  of  Texas  with  her  big,  bright,  smiling 

sky, 
And  swear  you'll  cuddle  in  her  arms  when  the  ice  is  in 

the  rye. 

When  old  March,  that  windy,  bilious,  bilging,  roaring 

month, 
That  digs  down  to  the  marrow  and  your  clothing  don't 

give  warmth, 
An'  your  nose  is  like  a  sugar  tree,  sap  running  down  your 

lip; 
An'  you  curse  the  beastly  weather  as  the  "boneset  tea" 

you  sip, 
An'  as  the  goose  flesh  creepeth  down  your  quivering  back, 

you  sigh — 
For  old  Texas'  balmy  weather  when  the  ice  is  in  the  rye. 

When  you  go  to  bed  at  night  time,  an'  between  the  sheets 

you  creep, 
'N  instead  of  prayers  its  curses,  for  there's  snow  upon 

your  sheet; 

The  alarm  clock  with  its  rattle  indicates  another  day, 
'N  you  crawl  out  like  a  snail  from  your  eiderdown  and 

hay, 
'N  you  long  for  dear  old  Texas  where  the  mornings  all 

are  dry, 
'N  the  cactus  is  a  bloomin'  and  the  ice  is  in  the  rye. 

If  you  come  to  Texas  you'll  spike  the  cannons  of  that 
cough, 

But  altho'  the  sky  is  smiling,  I  advise  don't  take  'em  off; 

Altho'  she's  sweet  and  pleasant,  yet  she  holds  in  her  em 
brace 

One  of  them  ding-burned  northers  that  has  whiskers  on 
his  face; 

And  if  you've  donned  the  B.  V.  D.'s  it  may  git  an'  you'll 
die, 

And  the  flavor  will  be  lost  to  you,  when  the  ice  is  in  the 
rye. 


LUBRICATIONS  105 


OPTIMISTIC  BILL 

D  you  ever  know  Bill  Davis? 
Well,  I'm  sure  you've  missed  a  treat. 
Bill  allus  had  a  smile  for  you 

No  matter  how  bad  he  was  beat. 
In  a  boss  trade,  or  a  land  deal, 

It  was  all  the  same  to  Bill; 
He  smiled  and  took  his  medicine 
No  matter  how  bitter  the  pill. 

Well,  Bill  planted  twenty  acres  of  wheat 

Down  in  his  bottom  land, 
And  when  the  wind  rippled  through  it 

I  tell  you  it  looked  mighty  grand; 
But  an  awful  storm  struck  that  valley, 

They  called  it  a  water  spout; 
It  flooded  the  entire  valley 

And  washed  Bill's  wheat  all  out. 
The  neighbors  all  came  to  condole  him, 

But  Bill,  with  a  smile  so  bland, 
Said,  "Now,  don't  worry,  neighbors, 

You  see  it  has  left  the  land." 

Bill  had  hardly  recovered 

From  the  effect  of  the  water  spout, 
When  his  barn  was  struck  by  lightning, 

But  he  got  his  horses  out. 
Again  his  friends  all  came 

To  view  his  misery; 
But  with  a  smile  perpetual, 

"I've  saved  my  stock  you  see. 
And  then  the  old  barn  was  rotten, 

And  for  some  time  has  been  too  small- 
I'll  build  me  up  another  one, 

I'll  have  it  done  by  fall." 


106 LUBRICA  TIONS 

Do  you  know  that  persecuted  feller 

Just  got  started  to  build  that  barn, 
When  a  cyclone  struck  his  residence 

And  blew  it  off  his  farm. 
Again  the  neighbors  came  to  Bill 

And  offered  their  sympathy, 
And  Bill  smiled  on  and  pointed  out 

That  he'd  saved  his  family. 
He  thought  the  house  was  far  too  small 

And  he  was  going  to  tear  it  down, 
He  needed  a  bigger  and  better  one — 

He'd  have  the  lumber  sent  out  from  town. 

Bill  was  the  very  best  feller 

That  ever  the  Lord  let  live; 
Wherever  charity  was  needed 

Bill  was  always  willing  to  give. 
There's  no  use  of  us  talking,  neighbor, 

His  equal  was  hard  to  find, 
For  no  matter  how  caustic  his  neighbors  got 

They  were  always  sure  to  find 
Bill  beaming  down  on  them; 

No  matter  how  uncomfortable  the  seat. 
But  the  hardest  luck  Bill  ever  had 

Was  when  he  lost  both  of  his  feet. 
His  good  friends  all  were  so  sorry 

Of  the   accident,   so   I'm   told, 
And  thought  to  hear  him  complaining, 
But  Bill,  he  only  smiled  wanly, 

And  said,  "Well,  they  always  were  cold." 

I'd  rather  have  Bill's  disposition 
And  go  through  life  on  them  pegs, 

Than  go  about  borrowing  trouble 
Like  some  that  have  good  legs. 


LUBRICATIONS  107 


THE  GRAFTER 

HPHE  grafter,  O  the  grafter,  has  no  reason  to  complain, 
-*•     The  money  from  the  sweat-shops  and  the  babies  are 

his  gain; 

He  scorns  the  decent  people,  he  dotes  on  vice  and  crime, 
Thinks  the  preachers  in  the  pulpit  should  all  be  doing 

time; 

He  sneers  at  buoyant  laughter,  and  he  chokes  the  sweet 
est  song, 
To  his  degenerate  brain,  God  is  always  wrong. 


The  grafter,  O  the  grafter,  have  you  met  him  in  your  path, 
Have  you  seen  his  sordid  head-lines,  and  words  of  vicious 

wrath? 

Instead  of  printing  upright  news,  the  sheet  is  full  of  lies, 
He  is  the  master  criminal,  that  good  men  all  despise. 
We  can  stand  the  ignoramus,  the  idiot  and  all — 
But  we  MUST  crush  this  viper,  the  grafter  and  his  gall. 


TO  MY  BOOK 

days  I  have  wasted  on  you,  little  book, 
The  hours  I  have  spent  in  my  den's  quiet  nook, 
Where  you  and  I  have  conspired  alone, 
Weaving  our  fancies,  and  dreaming  of  home. 

You're  selfish  of  me  as  a  lover  true — 

Awake  you  beckon — I  dream  of  you; 

You  have  taken  me  away  from  friends  that  are  dear, 

You  have  made  me  a  hermit,  without  shedding  a  tear; 

For  the  friends  that  I've  lost,  but  the  time  I've  employed, 

In  the  creation  of  you  has  been  greatly  enjoyed. 


108          LUBRICATIONS 

Do  I  love  you,  old  friend?    Aye,  look  in  my  heart, 
Don't  you  see  you're  myself,  and  that  the  best  part? 
How  well  do  I  know  you  and  all  that's  within 
Each  of  us.    The  only  ones  wronged  by  my  devotional  sin 
Are  friends — some  unloyal,  yet  some  that  are  true, 
But  I  never  can  tell  them  what  I  can  tell  you. 

Sometimes  you  take  me  from  business  away, 

But  in  that  you  are  wrong,  for  there'll  come  a  day, 

A  decision  is  made  twixt  you  and  my  bread, 

Then  the  wise  will  be  wiser,  will  not  point  to  their  head, 

When  we  pass  along,  but  will  grasp  the  hard  hand 

That  has  fondled  you  so  tenderly,  my  silent  brigand. 

But  wherever  I  go  I'll  find  none  that  will  cleave 

Like  you,  my  old  friend;  nowhere  on  earth  can  I  leave 

My  joys  and  my  sorrows,  where  no  one  will  look 

As  on  your  printed  pages,  my  own  little  book. 

The  thoughts  that  you  hold  will  attract  not  the  eye 

Of  the  critic  or  scholar,  good-bye,  good-bye. 


THE  APOLOGY 

T  COULDN'T  think  of  living  in  this  beautiful  world  of 

ours 

Without  poetical  thoughts — with  a  pathway  full  of  flowers. 
A  man  who  does  not  sometime  rhyme,  society  should  him 

disown, 
For  the  savage  still  is  in   him,    and   his   wild   oats   yet 

unsown. 

He  stunts  the  pretty  pictures  that  in  his  mind  would  last, 
His  presence  turns  the  forest  leaves,  like  winter's  icy 

blasts. 

He  never  sees  the  little  birds  darting  in  the  spring, 
He  never  sees  the  bursting  buds,  nor  hears  the  robin  sing, 
He's  never  seen  a  great  sea  wave  lash  a  reeling  ship, 
He's  never  sat  with  his  sweetheart  and  listened  to  the  drip 


LUBRICATIONS 109 

Of  the  gurgling  and  the  murmuring  of  the  little  woodland 

stream 

As  it  rolled  and  tumbled  to  the  sea  in  a  visionary  dream. 
Yet  these  are  commonplace  visions  seen  by  poets  each 

day. 
Cultivate  your  rhythmic  inheritance,  you'll  find  in  it 

good  pay. 

For  we  all  have  it  in  us — to  you  it  may  seem  but  a  spark, 
Dream  it,  read  it,  and  write  it,  it  may  turn  to  a  flame  in 

the  dark. 
And  when  in  the  sear  and  the  yellow  and  darkness,  and 

you  are  alone, 
Take  up  the  pad  and  the  pencil,  create  loving  memories 

of  home. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


NON-RENEWABLE 


FEB  1  1  1991 


DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DATE 

4BAHPH 

MAR  01 1999 


L9- 


RECEIVED 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELBS 


PS. 


Long  - 


Lubrications 
L3563   1 


..l£5.9.U™RN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000928137     9 


